Richard had taken a seat in the shadows, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He knew men thought him arrogant and he supposed he was, but he was also capable of laughing at himself, and as he began to relax and thaw out, he could see the perverse humor in it—that for the first time in his life, he was hoping not to attract attention. With a little imagination, he could hear the amused voice of his cousin André de Chauvigny echoing in his ear, You trying to seem modest and unassuming? You’d have a better chance of flying to the moon and back. He and André had fought side by side for nigh on twenty years, and he’d have given a great deal to have his cousin here in Friesach. He smiled to himself then, for he’d never admit that to André, of course. Barbed banter was the coin of their realm and heartfelt admissions of affection were rejected out of hand as counterfeit.
Warin had noticed several heavily rouged and powdered women and he leaned over to call them to the other men’s attention. His hopes were dashed, though, as they laughed at him and Fulk asked acidly if he meant to get roaring drunk and start a brawl after he’d gone whoring. He started to defend himself, only to be chided for speaking too loudly, and lapsed into a sulky silence, much to his friends’ amusement. Anselm was growing concerned by their merriment, fretting that the wine was going to their heads after so many hours without food, and he was leaning over to whisper his concern to Richard when he saw the king set down his wine cup with a thud. Following the direction of Richard’s gaze, he went rigid, too, for Arne was back, hastening across the crowded common room toward them, and he was ashen, so pale he looked bloodless.
They quickly made room for him on the bench, all their levity vanishing with their first look at Arne’s face. “A lord named Friedrich von Pettau is at the castle,” he said, so softly they had to strain to hear his voice. “He came all the way from Salzberg, bringing many knights and vowing to capture the English king. The people I spoke with said that rumors have been spreading like the pox. They thought it was a joke, saying the king must have wings for men are claiming to have seen him in dozens of places. But they said Lord Friedrich believes the stories and his men are everywhere, watching the stables, the taverns, alehouses, and, above all, the inns. They said a mouse could not gnaw through the net that has been cast over the town.”
By the time he was done, Arne’s halting words had trailed off into a choked silence. No one spoke after that. Nor did they meet one another’s eyes. During their night at St Gall abbey, they’d come up with an emergency plan, one to fall back upon if all hope seemed gone. But none of them had ever expected to have to make use of it, and now that the moment was upon them, they were stunned.
For once, Richard was not the first into the breach. When he said nothing, Baldwin realized that it was up to him. “We know what must be done,” he said quietly, his gaze moving from one face to another and then back to Richard. “You must go now, leave the town straightaway. We will do what we can to attract as much attention as possible and keep this Lord Friedrich so busy that he will have nary a thought to spare for anyone but us.”
For Richard, this was the nadir of their ordeal. He felt as if he were sacrificing his friends, violating a commander’s paramount duty to see to the safety of his men. And though he would never have admitted it, even to himself, it was a daunting prospect to continue on into the heartland of his enemy’s empire with only young Arne and one lone knight. Getting slowly to his feet, he glanced over at Warin and forced a smile. “It looks as if you’ll be able to swive a whore or two tonight, after all.”
Warin looked stricken, mumbling something inaudible. None of them knew what to say. Richard let his hand rest on Baldwin’s shoulder for a moment. “Do not stint yourselves,” he said, striving without much success for a light tone. “All know the English king is a hopeless spendthrift, after all.” He turned away then, and headed for the door, with Arne and Guillain de l’Etang following close behind. None of them glanced back.
The silence was smothering. Anselm lowered his head to hide tears. Robert de Turnham was slowly clenching and unclenching a fist, muttering under his breath. Warin had already emptied his own cup and now reached over to drain Richard’s. The usually phlegmatic Fulk was daubing at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, grateful that none noticed, for each man was caught up in his own misery. Morgan was gripping his eating knife so tightly that the handle was digging into his palm. Standing up suddenly, he said, “I am sorry, I cannot do this. I know we agreed that only Guillain was to go with him. But the Lady Joanna will skin me alive if I stay behind in Friesach.” Shoving his knife into its sheath, he fastened his mantle with unsteady fingers and then hurried after Richard.
Baldwin straightened his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we’d best get on with it.” He clapped his hands and whistled to catch a servingmaid’s eye, making the universal gesture for more drinks, and then turned back to his companions, beginning to speak French in a clear, carrying voice. The others followed his example, laughing too loudly, leering at the servingmaids, and it was not long before some of the tavern customers were casting curious and speculative glances their way.
CHAPTER FIVE
DECEMBER 1192