Richard scowled. “I most certainly did not. It was his choice to abandon the war, and a shameful one it was, for he’d sworn the same holy vow that I had, that we all had, to stay in Outremer until we’d recaptured Jerusalem from the infidels.”
“But you made it impossible for him to stay. You truly do not see that? All of his men knew what happened, knew you’d treated the banner of Austria as if it were a worthless rag. How could he stay after being shamed and humiliated like that? His only way to save face was to depart, even though it grieved him greatly to do so. This was the second time he’d taken the cross. On his first visit to the Holy Land, he’d even been given a splinter of the True Cross by the King of Jerusalem and, as precious as it was to him, he presented it to the abbey at Heiligenkreuz, saying it belonged in a House of God. He cared for the fate of the Holy Land as much as you did, my lord. Had you only shown some concern for his honor—which he had every right to expect—he’d never have left, and you might not be here at Dürnstein this December eve.” Friedrich turned then, apparently confident he’d gotten the last word, and walked with dignity to the door.
After they’d gone, servants brought up Richard’s supper, but he ignored it. He’d initially dismissed Leopold’s complaint as an annoyance, but when the duke sailed with the French king, he’d felt for the Austrian the same searing contempt he harbored for Philippe, unable to understand how they could so easily dishonor a vow made to Almighty God. Until tonight, he’d never tried to see Leopold’s side. As reluctant as he was to admit it, there was some truth in what Friedrich had said. It would have been hard for such a proud man to remain after being humbled by the English king.
Lying back on the bed, he called up memories of that fateful confrontation. With all he had on his mind, Leopold’s grievance had seemed of minor importance, and he’d had no sympathy for the duke’s indignant protests. Losing patience, he’d started to turn away when Leopold had dared to grab his arm, and that fired his own temper. He remembered the other man’s face, so deeply flushed he looked sunburned, his mouth ringed in white, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He remembered, too, telling his wife, sister, and nephew about it afterward. Henri had offered to intercede with Leopold, “to smooth his ruffled feathers,” but he’d said not to bother, that Leopold “could stew in his own juices.” Henri had considerable charm when he chose to exert it; could he have placated the irate duke? If he’d not been so indifferent to Leopold’s wounded pride, might their meeting in Ertpurch have gone differently? Yes, Leopold was Heinrich’s vassal, but he was no man’s puppet, and if his son was right, he’d been very serious about taking the cross, unlike Philippe. Might he have been loath to seize a man under the protection of the Church, like Count Englebert in G?rz? Would he have chosen to honor his vow to God above his fealty to the Holy Roman Emperor?
He was still brooding over his encounter with Leopold’s sons when Hadmar made an unexpected appearance. “I thought you should know that Duke Leopold arrived late this afternoon. He said that he will be speaking with you on the morrow.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Richard said, and then, as the other man turned to go, he called out impulsively, “Sir Hadmar, wait. Do you blame me for removing your duke’s banner at Acre?”
“Of course I do. By treating our banner with such disdain, you showed disdain for Duke Leopold, for our duchy, and for all Austrians.”
Richard had not expected such an uncompromising response. “I appreciate your candor,” he said, and Hadmar nodded stiffly, then withdrew, leaving Richard to try to reconcile this glimpse of a cold, implacable anger with the respectful treatment he’d so far received in Hadmar’s care. He could only conclude that whilst Hadmar shared his duke’s resentment over the banner, he did not approve of harming a man who’d taken the cross, who’d fought for Christ in the Holy Land.
LEOPOLD SEEMED IN NO hurry to speak, standing in the middle of the chamber, arms akimbo as his gaze moved from Richard to the guards to the furnishings of the bedchamber. “I see that Sir Hadmar has provided you with lodgings befitting your rank,” he said at last.
Richard regarded him challengingly. “Is that likely to change?”
“No.” Leopold fell silent again and then raised his head, squaring his shoulders. “In Vienna, your chamber was not . . . suitable for one of high birth. Whatever you have done, you are a king, God’s anointed. I was justly angered, but even so . . .” It was obvious he did not find it easy to admit this. His arms were now folded across his chest and his mouth tautly drawn, but he met Richard’s eyes unflinchingly as he spoke.