André shrugged helplessly, no less baffled. “Mayhap they drowned when he was shipwrecked. But surely we’d have heard of so great a disaster? Madame . . . there is more. The archbishop’s spy was able to get his hands on a second letter, this one written by Philippe to Leopold after hearing Heinrich’s news. He accused Richard of arranging Conrad of Montferrat’s murder and cautioned Leopold that he was not to free Richard, not to do anything until they had a chance to confer.” His mouth contorting, he said bitterly, “That accursed swine on the French throne means to put in his own bid for Richard, and if he does . . .”
There was no need to finish the sentence, for Eleanor understood the consequences fully as well as he did. She was sitting up straight now, no longer slumped back in the chair as if her bones could not bear her weight, and he saw that color was slowly returning to her cheeks; that sickly white pallor was gone. As he watched, it seemed to him that she was willing her body to recover, finding strength from some inner source that defied her advancing years, and he felt a rush of relief. It had shaken him to see her looking so fragile, so vulnerable, so old. She was on her feet now, beginning to pace as she absorbed the impact of the emperor’s letter, and when she turned to face André, he saw that her hazel eyes had taken on a greenish, cat-like glitter, reflecting nothing at that moment but a fierce, unforgiving rage.
“They will not get away with this,” she said, making that simple sentence a declaration of war. “We shall secure my son’s freedom, no matter what it takes. And we will protect his kingdom until he can be restored to us, André.”
That was exactly what André needed to hear. “I will leave for Germany as soon as I can make the arrangements, Madame, and I will find him, that I swear to you upon the surety of my soul—”
“No, André. Richard will have greater need of you here. Philippe will seek to lay claim to Normandy now that he knows he need not fear Richard’s retaliation. You and those men loyal to my son must hold it for him until he can deal with that ‘accursed swine on the French throne’ himself.”
As much as André wanted to go to Germany on his own, to tear that wretched country apart in his search for Richard, he knew she was right. “I promise you, Madame, that Philippe will claim not a foot of Norman soil whilst Richard is gone.” He hesitated then, for John was still her son, but it had to be said. “It will be a two-pronged attack—Philippe in Normandy, John in England. I do not know John’s whereabouts, but he’ll soon learn of Richard’s capture and when he does—”
“John is in Wales, trying to hire routiers and not having much luck so far.” Eleanor did not explain how she was so well informed about her youngest son’s activities, instead giving André a level, almost challenging look from those mesmerizing green eyes. “You need not worry about John,” she said coolly. “I will deal with him.”
She turned then to Amaria, telling the woman to summon her scribe. “Word must go out on the morrow. Richard’s justiciars must be told, especially Will Marshal. Thank God for Will. We’ll have to send out writs for a great council, too. So much to do.” She seemed to be talking to herself rather than to André, even though she glanced from time to time in his direction. “The ports must be put on alert and the royal castle garrisons strengthened. And we must begin laying plans to raise the ransom.” Looking back at André, then, Eleanor was surprised to see that he was grinning.
“You remind me of Richard, my lady, planning one of his campaigns. You are sure that Heinrich will demand a ransom?”
“Had it been Philippe . . .” She shook her head grimly. “But Heinrich . . . Yes, he will seek to ransom Richard. He is in dire need of money, for he is facing a rebellion from his own vassals. The fool actually dared to kill a bishop, or at least made it appear as if he did, which makes me seriously reconsider my estimation of the man’s intelligence. In a just and fair world, he’d be kept so busy fending off excommunication for that bloody act of lunacy that he’d never have dared to lay hands on Richard. But in a just and fair world, we’d not have a Pope so spineless it is a wonder he can walk upright,” she said, so acidly that André saw she expected little help from Celestine in gaining Richard’s freedom.
Eleanor crossed to André then and reached out, taking his hand in hers. “You look exhausted, Cousin. Did you sail from Barfleur to Southampton? So you’ve been on the road for days. My steward will find you lodgings here in the Tower. Try to get some sleep if you can. We will prevail, I promise you that.”