Leopold’s younger brother Heinrich was introduced to Richard as the Duke of M?dling, a duchy he’d not even heard of, but Leopold’s teenage nephew Ulrich stirred some unpleasant memories of Friesach, for he was the Duke of Carinthia, a region Richard hoped never to have to see again. The other guests included Leopold’s cousin Adalbert, the Archbishop of Salzburg; Dietrich, the Bishop of Gurk; and the Cistercian abbots of Stift Zwettl, which had been founded by Hadmar’s father, and Stift Heiligenkreuz, which had figured in Arne’s desperate cover story. Richard had hoped that Lord Friedrich von Pettau would be part of Leopold’s entourage, for he yearned for information about the men arrested in Friesach, but their gaoler was not among those mingling in Dürnstein’s great hall.
Richard would later look back on that afternoon as a truly bizarre experience, but one he’d enjoyed more than Leopold. The duke kept his distance, leaving it to Hadmar to act as the English king’s host, and Richard could see that Leopold was on edge, not sure how long his unpredictable prisoner would remain on his good behavior. He was indeed tempted, for he knew a public argument about Leopold’s likely descent into Hell would have mortified the duke in front of his family and friends. But that did not serve his interests, and so he set about doing all he could to charm these highborn guests. He gallantly kissed the hands of Helena and Eufemia, paying them the sort of courtly compliments he’d long ago learned in his mother’s Aquitaine. He pleased Archbishop Adalbert by respectfully kissing his ring and, remembering Friedrich’s story, he asked the abbot of Heiligenkreuz’s Holy Cross Abbey to tell him about their sacred fragment of the True Cross. This was not only an inspired topic of conversation with clerics, it put Leopold in a favorable light, and Richard hoped the listeners would take note of his generosity of spirit, praising the man who was his gaoler.
He was not long in realizing why they’d been so eager to meet him. In part, it was natural curiosity, for he was a renowned soldier, one of the most celebrated kings in Christendom. But it was Jerusalem that was the true draw, and he soon found himself answering questions about desert battles in Outremer, the future of the Holy Land, and the man who fascinated much of Europe even if he was an infidel, Salah al-Din.
Leopold’s brother and nephew and the other men present were most interested in the war; although he’d never show it and maintained a dignified silence, Richard was sure that the duke, too, yearned to hear of the march from Acre, of Ibn Ibrak and Jaffa. Had circumstances been different, he and Richard would have been fighting side by side against the Saracens, men doomed to Hell, of course, but worthy foes nonetheless. The clerics wanted to hear of the biblical holy sites and were visibly disappointed when Richard told them that he’d been one of the few not to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem after the peace treaty was made. But when he explained that he did not feel he’d earned the right, having failed in his vow to retake Jerusalem from Saladin, he could see that they approved his resolve to keep faith with the Almighty, even found it admirable. That had indeed been his reason for denying himself the spiritual joy of seeing the Holy Sepulchre, the rock upon which the body of the Lord Christ had lain, the room where the Last Supper had taken place, all the sacred sites exalted in Scriptures. But he had no scruples about using his refusal to gain himself some goodwill amongst Leopold’s bishops.
His love of music served him well, too, when Reinmar von Hagenau came forward to entertain, for he had some knowledge of the German troubadours called minnesingers, and he was able, therefore, to request one of Reinmar’s songs by name. He graciously yielded to the women’s coaxing and joined Reinmar in performing one of his own songs, although highborn poets in Aquitaine preferred to have their compositions sung by joglars and jongleurs. He even managed to turn the afternoon’s one awkward moment to his advantage. Leo had been noticeably sulking, and taking advantage of a break in the conversation, he’d asked in a loud, carrying voice if it was true that the English king and his brothers were known as the Devil’s brood. Both Leopold and Helena were dismayed by their son’s rudeness, but Richard merely smiled and cheerfully shared his favorite family legend—Melusine, the Demon Countess of Anjou, who’d wed an Angevin count, only to reveal herself to be the Devil’s daughter. He and his brothers had often joked about Melusine, taking a perverse pride in having such a scandalous ancestress. But seeing that some of the guests were shocked and the abbots were making the sign of the cross, he quickly reassured them that such stories were nonsense, of course, tales told by their enemies to discredit the Angevin House.
All in all, he was quite pleased with what he’d accomplished on this Tuesday in late December. Hadmar personally escorted him back to his tower chamber, with the guards much more conspicuous now that they’d left the hall. The Austrian bade Richard a polite good evening, pausing at the door to say, “You’re a clever man.”
Richard did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I’d take that as a compliment if you did not sound so surprised,” he said dryly. “Your duke and I had no time to talk this afternoon. But we will need to talk . . . and soon.”
Hadmar nodded. “You will,” he promised, and for the moment, Richard had to be content with that.