Richard wanted to argue. But when Baldwin urged them on, he gave in and turned Roger’s roan stallion away from Udine and followed the Fleming. Once they were sure that they were not being pursued, they slackened their pace, sparing their weary horses as best they could. The day’s clouds had begun to disperse and their way was dimly lit by the emergence of the moon and a scattering of distant stars. They felt the cold more after so many months in the Holy Land and their hands and faces were soon reddened and windburned. The jagged silhouettes of the alpine peaks that rose up on either side of the road only contributed to their claustrophobic sense of being hemmed in, surrounded by dangers, enemies, and hidden perils.
Richard had not spoken for hours and, knowing that they had no comfort to offer, his companions left him alone with thoughts as dark as the December night. Of all he had endured since being shipwrecked on the Istrian coast—the hunger, the cold, the lack of sleep, the indignity of being hunted as if he were a fox with hounds baying on his trail—nothing had shaken him as deeply as the capture of the Templars and crossbowmen, forcing him to admit just how powerless he was, how vulnerable. Fulk had accused him of being unable to conceive of defeat, and the Poitevin clerk was right; he did always expect to prevail over other men, confident of his own abilities and dismissive of his foes. But now he found himself assailed by rare doubts. How many more men would they lose? How could they hope to evade capture if the entire countryside was on the lookout for suspicious strangers? And if he was taken, what then? For the first time, he seriously considered the fate that would await him if he fell into Heinrich’s hands, utterly at the mercy of a man who had none. England’s king, God’s anointed, cast into a German dungeon whilst his lands in Normandy were ravaged by that craven whoreson on the French throne and Johnny claimed his crown. If his misgivings were unfamiliar, so, too, was the emotion that now rode with him on this icy mountain road—fear.
THEY COVERED TWENTY-FIVE MILES before daring to halt at the Benedictine monastery of St Gall in Moggio. There they were accepted by the monks as pilgrims and were able at last to get a desperately needed night’s sleep in the abbey guest hall. They’d hoped to make better time on the Via Julia Augusta, the Roman road that was the main route from Aquileia to the Alps, for it was over twenty feet wide and paved with stones. They soon discovered that great stretches of it were in disrepair, though, and the weather turned nasty; they found themselves riding through snow squalls that sometimes obscured the road altogether. They were in the duchy of Carinthia now, a wild, rugged land where strangers were always regarded with mistrust, bandits roamed the heavily wooded forests, and they’d not be likely to encounter another lord with principles or a transplanted Norman with divided loyalties.
They debated making a stop in the town of Villach, but caution prevailed and they rode on, seeking shelter at another monastery, a Benedictine abbey on the north shore of a vast lake called the Ossiach. The next day, they pushed themselves and their horses to cover more than thirty miles, an impressive feat on winter roads, and as daylight was fading, they were approaching the walled town of Friesach.
The monks at St Gall had told Anselm that Friesach was one of the most prosperous towns in Carinthia, for it was the site of a rich silver mine, which had attracted men eager to seek their fortune. That would make it easier to blend in, they agreed, but they’d already realized it was nonetheless a risk they had to take, for darkness was falling and they were urgently in need of food and rest.
They stabled their horses, but delayed looking for an inn until they were sure it was safe to stay overnight in Friesach. Finding a tavern across from the parish church of St Bartholomew, they ordered a meal while Arne ventured out onto the city streets to eavesdrop, observe, and judge the public mood. They felt oddly uneasy with him gone, so dependent had they become upon him in the past week; his ability to speak German was, they all agreed, truly a Godsend.
The tavern was crowded, the conversation loud and cheerful. From what they’d seen so far of Friesach, it was indeed as the St Gall monks had described—thriving, bustling, and populous. A good place to go unnoticed, certainly safer than G?rz, Udine, or Villach. They pitched into a mediocre Advent fish meal with relish, grateful to be out of the cold and out of the saddle, and encouraged to hear other tongues beside German.