That came as a shock, for Richard had convinced himself he’d be able to talk sense into the other man, having seen subtle signs that Leopold might be regretting grabbing a lion by the tail. A day ago, he’d have erupted in rage, reminding the duke that he’d be cast into eternal darkness if he persisted in this madness, demanding to know if any grievance was worth putting his immortal soul at risk. But a seventeen-year-old boy had done something few others had managed to do: he had gotten him to see a viewpoint other than his own. Setting his wine cup down carefully instead of slamming it to the floor, he said, “Leopold, you are making a fatal mistake. Whatever happens to me, you’ll suffer a far worse fate. We both know the Holy Father will excommunicate you for so great a sin. But it is not too late. There is still time to undo what has been done.”
Leopold pushed his chair back, got slowly to his feet. “You are wrong, Lionheart,” he said somberly. “We no longer have the luxury of choosing our own fates. You see, I was honor-bound to send word of your capture to my liege lord, and Emperor Heinrich has commanded me to bring you to him at Regensburg. We depart on the morrow for the imperial court.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JANUARY 1193
On Road to Regensburg, Germany
This time Richard agreed not to attempt an escape in order to avoid being bound. Hadmar gave him the excuse he needed by telling him it was one hundred fifty miles to Regensburg, but the truth was that he’d have done almost anything to avoid arriving at Heinrich’s court trussed up like a Michaelmas goose. He was disappointed that the Archbishop of Salzburg and the Bishop of Gurk did not accompany Leopold, for he’d hoped he might get a chance to talk to one of them privately. But neither prelate nor the Cistercian abbots were part of the duke’s retinue. Leopold kept a deliberate distance, offering Richard no opportunity to speak with him. He did manage one brief conversation with Hadmar and, figuring he had nothing to lose, he asked if the Austrian clerics approved of his captivity. The other man surprised him by how readily he answered. “Of course they do not. The duke is defying the Church and that is of great concern to them. But they are loyal to him, nonetheless, and will remain so, even if the Pope were to inflict the ultimate punishment upon him.” Not what Richard wanted to hear.
They covered about twenty miles a day, a respectable distance for winter travel, staying at castles, once at a monastery, and once at an inn where their arrival sent the innkeeper into a tizzy. Richard was always lodged in comfortable quarters, but kept isolated and under heavy guard, which gave him too much time to think about what awaited him at the imperial court.
He’d never met Heinrich von Hohenstaufen, but what he knew of the other man was not reassuring. Heinrich was twenty-seven, very well educated, said to be fluent in Latin and, like Richard, a sometime poet. He was also said to be ruthless, inflexible, unforgiving, and haughty. Richard’s brother-in-law, the former Duke of Saxony, and his nephew had nothing good to say of him. Neither had Richard’s mother and wife.
Eleanor and Berengaria had an unexpected encounter with Heinrich and his consort two years ago when they were on their way to join Richard in Sicily. Heinrich and Constance were heading for Rome to be crowned by the Pope, having learned of the death of Heinrich’s father on crusade, and their paths had converged in the Italian town of Lodi, much to the discomfort of its bishop, their reluctant host. Lying on his bed in a German castle, doing his best to ignore the guards encircling him with drawn swords, Richard recalled his mother’s trenchant appraisal of the German emperor.
“Heinrich is clever, too clever by half. And cold. If he were cut, I daresay he’d bleed pure ice. He had all the charm of a wounded badger.” Eleanor had paused when Richard laughed. “But he is a dangerous man, Richard, not one to be taken lightly, for he has no scruples and a great deal of power. He’d make a very bad enemy.”
That was a damning indictment, but Richard found his wife’s somber assessment to be even more troubling, for Berengaria was naturally inclined to give others the benefit of the doubt and she was not one for drama or hyperbole. “He does not appear regal,” she’d said, “not like you or my brother Sancho, and at first I wondered why men seemed to fear him so much. But his eyes . . . Richard, I know this may sound foolish. But when I looked into his eyes, I felt that I was looking into an abyss.”