The chamber was little bigger than a cell, containing only a pallet, a chamber pot, and a wooden stool. There was a small, shuttered window, though, and several torches smoldered in wall sconces. For all of his bravado, Richard felt relief; at least he’d not been cast into the suffocating blackness of a frigid, underground dungeon. As spartan as his new surroundings were, they were no worse than what he’d endured in the eleven days since their shipwreck. All he wanted now was time alone, time to come to terms with this shocking spin of Fortune’s wheel. But he soon saw that his guards did not intend to leave, that he was to be kept under constant surveillance by men with drawn swords. Under other circumstances, he might have seen the twisted humor in it; what did Leopold fear, that he could walk through walls or fly to safety like an eagle? Now he felt only a dulled throb of anger and despair. It did not bother him that he’d be watched even as he used the chamber pot; soldiers had no false modesty. But with so many eyes upon him, he could not let down his guard for even a heartbeat; he was determined that his enemies never know how deeply shaken he was by his capture.
There was no heat in the chamber and he was soon shivering. He was thirsty, too, for his mouth had gone so dry he had not even enough saliva to spit. But he’d be damned to eternal hellfire ere he’d ask them for anything. He’d not give Leopold that satisfaction. Unable to sit, he began to pace, and the guards kept bumping into one another as they sought to keep him at arm’s length. They reminded him of the crowds flocking to a bear baiting, at once fascinated by and fearful of the chained bear. He did not doubt the bear would prefer to die fighting, lashing out at the hounds tormenting him as long as he had strength in those massive paws.
They’d come so close—just fifty miles from the Moravian border! If not for his accursed fever, they’d be safe now. How could his body have betrayed him like that? How could this be the Almighty’s Will? He’d failed to take Jerusalem; he could not deny that. But he’d tried, Christ Jesus, how he’d tried, sabotaged time and time again by those French miscreants. And he’d stayed, he’d honored his vow even after learning that Philippe and Johnny were plotting to usurp his throne. He’d not given up and gone home as Philippe and Leopold had. What had he done to deserve this?
Minutes seemed to drag by like hours, hours like days. He thought he heard bells chiming in the town; calling parishioners to Vespers? Compline? When the door opened suddenly, he spun around, expecting that Leopold had come to gloat. But he found himself facing a grey-haired priest, flanked by two servants. As they moved into the chamber, Richard saw that they carried a tray of food and a pile of blankets. “I am Father Otto, the duke’s chaplain,” the priest said in quite good Latin, giving Richard one of those chained-bear glances and then looking quickly away. “I thought you might be hungry, my lord.”
“What of my men? Have they been fed?”
“I . . . I am not sure. But I will look into it,” the chaplain promised. He’d yet to meet Richard’s eyes and Richard wondered if his unease could be due to embarrassment. Who would know better than a man of God the gravity of Leopold’s transgression?
As he studied the priest, Richard realized that his pride had led him astray. By not protesting his treatment, he was making it easier for them. They’d dared to capture a king, so by God, he’d act like one. “What of the lad, Arne? Leopold admitted he’d been tortured to get him to speak. I want him seen by a doctor straightaway. He is under the Church’s protection no less than my knights, for we all took holy vows. Tell Leopold for me that he is putting his immortal soul in peril for what he has done this day. Better yet, tell him yourself. You are his confessor, are you not? Then do not shirk your duty, priest. Speak up whilst there is still time for your lord to repent.”
The chaplain ducked his head, his distress so evident now that it was obvious he was not happy with his duke’s actions. Those who served both the Almighty and secular lords did their best to follow Jesus’s teachings and render unto Caesar the things which were Caesar’s, and unto God the things that were God’s, all the while praying they’d never have to choose between the two. Richard had learned to read other men as a priest read his psalter and he doubted that Father Otto would have the inner strength to defy his duke. Would Leopold’s bishops have more courage? But even if they spoke up, would he heed them?
“I will do what I can, my lord,” Father Otto replied, still staring down at his shoes. Richard watched as he made a hasty retreat, hoping that the priest would at least intercede on behalf of his knights and Arne. He gave the food only a cursory glance; it was plain fare, a fish pottage not likely to be served at Leopold’s table, but there was an ample helping of it, as well as a loaf of fresh-baked bread, and a cup of ale. He had no appetite, though. Picking up the ale, he crossed to the window, and his guards became agitated when he began to unfasten the shutters. A sharp word from their sergeant quieted them, and Richard understood why as he pulled the shutters back, for the window was almost as narrow as an arrow slit, offering no chance of escape. A blast of icy air struck him in the face, taking his breath, but he stayed by the window for a while, gazing up at the darkening sky. It looked like a black sea adrift with stars, far removed from the earthly troubles of mortal men.