“Philippe Capet has done everything in his power to destroy my honor and my good name, and now that I am entrapped in his web of lies, what does he do? At a time when he knows I am powerless to defend myself or my domains, he declares war upon England.” Richard got the response he’d hoped for—expressions of shock and disgust on the faces of these German bishops and lords.
“But one of the accusations made against me by the French is true. They say that my war was a failure, and they are right. I have explained why I believed we could not recapture the Holy City. Yet that was the aim of our quest. I swore an oath to Almighty God that I would liberate Jerusalem from the Saracens, and I was unable to do it. My oath means more to me than the French king’s oath did to him, though. So I promised Queen Isabella and my nephew and the Poulain lords that once I dealt with my faithless brother and treacherous liege lord, I would return to Outremer to fulfill my vow.”
Looking about him, Richard was gratified to see that his words had resonated with the audience. “Now you have heard my account of what truly happened.” He was tempted to end with a proud Make of it what you will. He realized, though, that arrogance was an indulgence he could not afford, and so he forced himself to strike a more conciliatory note. “I would hope that you give greater weight to my actions than to my enemies’ lies and render justice this day to a man sorely in need of it.”
There was a brief silence when he was done speaking, and then the hall erupted into applause and cheers. Men were standing and Richard soon found himself surrounded by Heinrich’s lords and bishops, some of them with tears in their eyes. The stranger who’d sent him the wine introduced himself as Adolf von Altena, the Provost of Cologne’s great cathedral, and showed himself to be a man of courage by saying loudly that the king of the English had been cruelly maligned. All of the bishops had joined the circle by now, even the Bishop of Speyer, and Richard had a fleeting moment to wonder if the prelates were seizing this opportunity to show their disapproval of their emperor’s flouting of Church law. But then they were moving aside, clearing a path for Boniface of Montferrat.
The marquis came to a halt in front of Richard. “Do you swear upon the salvation of your immortal soul that you played no part in my brother’s death?”
“I do so swear.”
Boniface’s pause was deliberate, for he shared Richard’s flair for drama. “I believe you,” he said at last, and that set off another bout of cheering.
Richard was dazed by his own success, for this had exceeded his wildest expectations. The small English contingent was laughing through tears and Hadmar had materialized at his side, a wide grin on his face. But Leopold remained seated, his rigid body language conveying his disappointment and anger. As Richard turned toward the dais, so did others, until the hall had grown quiet and all eyes were upon the emperor.
It was easy enough to read the emotions of the men flanking Heinrich. The Bishop of Beauvais looked as if he were in danger of strangling on his own bile. Heinrich’s uncle seemed to share Leopold’s dismay, while Heinrich’s brothers were grinning behind his back, sibling rivalry apparently proving stronger than family solidarity. But Heinrich could have been carved from ice, so little did his face reveal of his thoughts.
When Richard started to walk toward the dais, it was so still that his footsteps echoed sharply on the tiled floor. For a long moment, his eyes held Heinrich’s and then he knelt before the throne. There was a muted sound from the audience, almost like a collective catch of breath, which at once gave way to wild cheering. The hall quieted, though, when Heinrich got to his feet.
“We have been led astray by false tales. I see now that the English king has been unfairly accused and defamed.” Reaching out, he signaled for Richard to rise and then, solemnly and formally, Heinrich gave the other man the kiss of peace.
The cheering began again, loudly enough to echo out into the city streets. Richard was not fooled by Heinrich’s dispassionate demeanor. He was close enough to the emperor to see the frozen fury reflected in those ice-pale eyes, and he gloried in it. For most of his life, he’d made a habit of defying the odds, turning likely defeats into improbable triumphs. But never had he experienced a victory as sweet or as satisfying as the one he’d just won in the Imperial Diet at Speyer.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MARCH 1193
Speyer, Germany