They were standing by the open window in the solar, gazing across the river at Richard’s “fair daughter.” A soft rain was falling and the ramparts of Castle Gaillard were wreathed in ghostly grey mist. To Otto, it looked as if the citadel were floating upon clouds, a place of magic and majesty, one that would never fall to the scorpion on the French throne. As he glanced over at his uncle, he was sure that Richard was thinking the same thing.
When he asked about Hugh’s presence, Richard shook his head admiringly. “That man is unlike anyone I’ve ever met. He fears nothing, not even an Angevin king’s just wrath. When he arrived at the castle, I was about to hear Mass in the royal chapel with the Bishops of Durham and Ely. I was in no mood to bid him welcome, and when he approached and asked for the kiss of peace, I ignored him. But he persisted, declaring I owed it to him since he’d come such a great distance to see me. I told him he deserved no kiss from me. Do you know what he did next? He grabbed my mantle and actually dared to shake me, saying he had the right to the kiss and would not take no for an answer. I could not help myself, began to laugh. So he got his kiss of peace and I forgave him, for courage like that must be rewarded.”
Otto smiled, for he, too, respected courage. “Why did you send for me, Uncle? Has that French weasel stirred up more trouble?”
“The trouble does not come from the ‘French weasel’ this time, but from your homeland. Count Emicho of Leiningen sought me out a fortnight ago; you’ll want to speak with him later. Some of the princes convinced Philip of Swabia that he ought to make his own claim for the German throne, and they elected him as King of Germany in Erfurt last month.”
Otto did not know Philip, for he’d lived in England and Normandy since he was five years old. He did not doubt that Heinrich was burning in Hell with his other two brothers, both of whom had been murdered, one by the husband of a woman he’d raped. From what he’d been told, though, Philip, the youngest, shared neither their cruelty nor their contempt for the rule of law, the only Hohenstaufen prince without blood on his hands or his conscience. But that did not mean Otto wanted to see him as the next emperor; his loyalty was to his elder brother.
“I am sorry to hear that, Uncle. But the Archbishop of Cologne and the Rhineland princes will still support Henrik, surely?” And he was dismayed when Richard shook his head again.
“Henrik is still in the Holy Land, and they believe they dare not delay until his return to Germany. They need a candidate to oppose Philip now, and it looks as if it is going to be you, lad.”
“Me?”
Otto sounded so incredulous that Richard smiled. “Why not you? Your father was the Duke of Saxony, your brother is the Count Palatine thanks to his marriage, and you have a generous patron in the English king, one willing to spend whatever it takes to secure your election. You have the blood, you have the backing, and I’ll see to it that you have the money.”
Richard laughed then, utterly delighted by this unexpected turn of events. “Heinrich’s corner of Hell has just gotten hotter. And can you imagine Philippe’s horror when he hears that my nephew will sit on the throne of the Romans? Our alliance will guarantee that he never draws another easy breath.”
When Otto remained silent, Richard gave him a quizzical look. “You do want to be emperor?”
Otto hesitated. He loved being Count of Poitou. He loved Poitiers, which had fine wine and pretty women and a mild climate. He loved his uncle, who’d treated him as if he were a son. He thought of French as his native tongue and thought of the Angevin domains as home. Germany was an alien land to him now; even its language sounded foreign to his ears. But who could refuse an imperial crown?
“If it is God’s Will, then of course I will accept, Uncle.”
OTTO WAS ELECTED as king of the Romans in Cologne on June 6 and crowned in Aachen on July 12, while his rival for the German throne quickly made an alliance with the French king against Richard, Otto, the Archbishop of Cologne, and Baldwin, the Count of Flanders.
ON SEPTEMBER 6, the Count of Flanders and the Count of Boulogne invaded Artois and laid siege to St Omer. Philippe promised the citizens that he would come to their rescue by the end of the month, but he soon found himself fighting a war on two fronts and Richard kept him so busy in Normandy that the city would eventually surrender to Baldwin and Renaud on October 13.