AFTER CROSSING THE DANUBE, they headed west along the river. They encountered few other travelers, for most people preferred to detour off the road when they spotted a large band of armed men in the distance. The knights were commanded by the man with the detached demeanor and cynical eyes; by now, Richard had learned his name was Gunther. He spoke neither French nor Latin, but he managed to communicate with Richard when need be, using the universal language of soldiers—gestures, sardonic smiles, and the instinctive understanding of men who’d shared the same experiences, albeit on different battlefields.
They set a fast pace and by sunset, they’d covered more than thirty miles. Richard never knew the name of the small town where they passed the night, taking over a ramshackle inn that reminded him of the Black Lion in Udine. Once they were settled in, Gunther directed men to take turns guarding Richard and then removed the ropes. They grumbled among themselves; Richard guessed that they were complaining they’d not have to keep watch if he was kept tied up, but none of them protested to Gunther. Richard ate little of the meal provided by the innkeeper, and slept even less, lying awake as most of the knights snored loudly and his guards watched him with the intensity of cats at a mouse hole. Had he spoken any German, he could have told them that they were worrying for naught. He was well aware that escape was an impossibility, although that did not stop him from occupying those long, wakeful hours by considering each and every one of those impossible escapes. Better to do that than to think about what awaited him at Dürnstein, or the men he’d lost since their shipwreck, or how the news of his capture would affect those who mattered the most to him: his mother, sister, wife, his cousin André, his young son back in Poitiers.
The next morning, Gunther paused, holding out the ropes and raising an eyebrow questioningly. Richard understood what was being asked and very much wanted to agree; it had not taken long for him to regret spurning Leopold’s offer. But pride would not let him retreat from his defiant stand and he shook his head. Gunther shrugged and lashed his wrists together, although Richard thought he could detect a reluctant gleam of respect in the knight’s eyes, the sort of admiration men reserved for behavior that was stubborn, brave, and foolhardy.
Clouds were gathering as they continued on the next day, and the air had the feel of coming snow. As the temperature plunged, so did Richard’s spirits. He’d begun to fear that his fever was spiking again, that he might be vulnerable to another attack of quartan fever. He could not imagine anything worse than to be gravely ill and helpless in the hands of his enemies; he’d always found it difficult enough to be ill amongst his friends. And if he did sicken again, God help him if he was thrown into a Dürnstein dungeon, for he’d not last long in a cold, dark, and damp cell. He’d been unable to forget Father Otto’s somber warning, replaying in his mind his two tense encounters with Leopold. For certes, he’d not given the Austrian duke any reason to think kindly of him. Would Leopold seek to take revenge now that he was away from public view? Had he been treated harshly in Vienna, word would have gotten out, and Leopold was already on very precarious ground with the Church. But who would know what happened behind the stone walls of a remote, inaccessible fortress like Dürnstein?
Govern your tongue, the priest had said. God knows he’d not done that, he thought ruefully, and a memory suddenly surfaced—listening as their father rebuked his brother Hal for some forgotten misdeed. Hal had been making matters worse, of course, blustering and trying to put the blame on others until Henry had interrupted, saying that when a man fell into a deep hole, it was usually a good idea to stop digging. The memory was so vivid and so unexpected that it evoked a brief smile, albeit a grim one. He would indeed do better to put his shovel aside. He knew that full well. But he knew, too, that pride was his only shield, all that he had to fend off fear and utter despair.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, they could see castle walls in the distance. Even before Gunther pointed toward it and said, “Dürnstein,” Richard knew that he was looking at Leopold’s “impregnable stronghold.” It cast a formidable shadow over the valley, perched high on a cliff above the Danube, as rough-hewn, ominous, and impassable as the surrounding mountains. Richard would normally have assessed it with a soldier’s eye, seeking its weaknesses and weighing its strengths. Now he saw only a prison.