“How would I know that?”
You know, she thought, you are just loath to admit it. She carefully kept any anger or resentment from her voice, though. “Once he is in the emperor’s power, it will all come out. How you could have seized him in G?rz and did not. When Heinrich learns that you let him go, do you think he will forgive you for that?” That was three questions, but she was sure he was no longer counting, for that third question went to the heart of the matter, was likely the one that had been robbing him of sleep.
He was quiet for so long that she feared he would try to avoid answering. But he finally said, very low, “No, I know he will not.”
Methildis shut her eyes in a silent prayer of thankfulness that he’d regained his senses. “You followed your conscience and gave the English king a chance to escape. But now you must protect yourself, Engelbert. You did your duty as a Christian. Now you must do it as the emperor’s liegeman. On the morrow you must send word to your brother, Meinhard, that Richard of England was reportedly seen in G?rz. If he is captured elsewhere, it is not your doing and not your fault. He is in God’s hands, as are we all.”
She held her breath then, waiting for him to argue, to protest. When he did not, she felt such relief that she sank back, exhausted, against the pillows, feeling as if she’d staved off disaster by a hairsbreadth. Reaching for his hand, she gave it a squeeze. “You will send a messenger to Meinhard?”
“I will.” It was little more than a whisper, but it was enough for her. It was quiet after that, and as his breathing steadied and slowed, she could tell that he was drifting toward sleep. She’d given him this peace of mind, she thought, a way to reconcile his conflicting loyalties. She was growing drowsy, too. But then she remembered.
“Engelbert. The ruby ring . . . Where is it?”
“Wha . . .” he mumbled, yawning. “I gave it back to them. . . .” He slid easily into sleep then, never hearing his wife’s quick intake of breath, as sharp as any blade.
CHAPTER FOUR
DECEMBER 1192
Udine, Friuli
After fleeing G?rz, Richard and his men took shelter that night in a charcoal burner’s hut. The man and his family were terrified by the sudden appearance of these armed foreigners, and not comforted by Arne’s attempts at reassurance. None of them drew an easy breath until the men rode on in the morning, and then they could only marvel at their good fortune, for the knights had left a generous sum for their reluctant hospitality, more coins than they’d ever seen. Laughing and hugging one another, they vowed to pray for these mysterious strangers, beseeching Saint Christopher, who was said to protect travelers, to keep them safe as they faced the perils of the mountain roads.
THE ALEHOUSE WAS SMALL and shabby, its trampled floor rushes reeking of spilt ale and mouse droppings, its dingy walls yellowed by smoke and streaked with dirt. It was very crowded, for the day had been a cold one, the leaden skies threatening snow, and Richard and his men had trouble finding seats. The food was not any better than the surroundings, but they ate it without complaint, for hunger was a good sauce and this was their first meal since they’d left G?rz.
During their brief stay with the charcoal burner, they’d concluded the danger was so great that Hungary was now beyond their reach, and they’d have to head north toward Moravia, ruled by the brother of Duke Ottokar of Bohemia, where they hoped to receive a friendly welcome. On their arrival in the town of Udine, they avoided the castle, not willing to risk another safe-conduct fiasco. After arranging to stable their horses, they took rooms in a nearby inn, and then went in search of a tavern or alehouse that served meals. As they scooped up the beans and salted herring with stale bread, they tried not to remember the four-course dinner thrown for them by Archbishop Bernard and Count Raphael; it was less than a fortnight since they’d sailed from Ragusa, but already it seemed a distant part of their past.
All around them swirled familiar sounds: laughter and good-natured squabbling and shouts for more ale to the harried servingmaids, who were kept as busy fending off groping hands as they were pouring ale. They could have been back in any alehouse or tavern in their own homelands if the language had not been German, occasionally interspersed with Italian dialects. They ate in silence themselves, not wanting to attract attention by speaking French, small, gloomy islands in a cheerful, boisterous sea of ale-soaked camaraderie. Arne had just gone to find the privy when Guillain de l’Etang rose and took the seat he vacated, settling onto the bench next to Richard.