They were all greatly relieved to have it settled. Hubert suspected that Richard was, too, even if he’d never admit it. It was then, though, that the Abbot of Boxley made another error. “Let us drink, then, to the king’s impending release,” he exclaimed, and bustled over to the table to pour wine for them before Hubert could stop him.
Richard took a cup when it was thrust into his hand, but his eyes had darkened to a storm-sea grey. Hubert and William had too often seen the old king’s eyes take on that same ominous shade just before the notorious Angevin temper ignited, and so they were braced for what happened next. The abbots and Richard’s guards were not, and they all flinched and gasped when Richard’s fist closed around the cup and he then flung it furiously across the chamber. It struck the wall with enough force to shatter, sending shards of glazed clay flying in all directions, while the wine splashed the whitewashed surface with splatters that looked eerily like bloodstains.
“I may have to agree to this odious extortion,” Richard snarled, “but by God, I’ll not celebrate it!”
RICHARD WAS RECLINING IN the window-seat of his chamber in the Bishop of Speyer’s palace, strumming a small harp; it was tangible evidence of his improved prospects, for as soon as he’d requested one from the bishop, it had been delivered to him within hours. He’d also been allowed to meet with some of the German prelates, and had even spent an enjoyable afternoon with the Provost of Cologne, Adolf von Altena, who’d given him an interesting update on the rebellion. But now that Easter was past, the men who’d attended the Imperial Diet had departed Speyer, and Richard’s flood of visitors had ebbed to a trickle. He was pleased, therefore, when a knock sounded at the door, for after three months in semiseclusion, he welcomed Heinrich’s open-door policy; isolation had been a punishment in and of itself for a man accustomed to being the center of attention.
He had new guards now that Leopold had formally surrendered him to the emperor, and one rose and moved casually to the door, admitting Hadmar and Leopold’s two sons.
“We’ve come to bid you farewell,” Friedrich declared, “for our lord father is returning to Austria today and so we might not see you again.”
“Unless you come to our weddings,” Leo chimed in, with a cheeky grin that Richard could not help returning.
“I expect I’ll be too busy putting the fear of God into my brother and his French partner in crime.”
“Well, you would be welcome,” Friedrich assured him. “After all, when I wed your niece, you and I will be kin.”
He sounded rather proud of that, and his brother elbowed him in the ribs. “Are you going to call him Uncle Lionheart?”
“Over my dead body,” Richard said, and both youths laughed.
“Pay Leo no mind. I wanted to tell you,” Friedrich said, with an attempt at adult gravitas, “that I am honored to marry your niece.”
“He also wants to know what she looks like,” Leo gibed, earning himself an indignant look from Friedrich.
“You are just as curious about the Damsel of Cyprus!”
Richard was amused by their playful rivalry, in such contrast to his own contentious relationship with John and his other brothers, and he surprised himself by thinking that whatever else might be said of Leopold, he’d proven to be a good father. “Well, I’ve not seen Aenor for over three years, and she is a little lass, only . . .” He paused to calculate rapidly. “. . . nine. But by the time she is old enough to be a wife, I daresay she will be pleasing to you, Friedrich. The women in my family are usually beauties.”
“What about Anna? Is she pretty? How old is she?”
“Fifteen. And very pretty indeed, Leo, with long fair hair and blue eyes. She is also lively and quick to speak her mind, so if you expect a docile little lamb, you’ll be disappointed.”
“I fancy a lass who shows some spirit,” Leo said loftily, for all the world as if he had vast experience with spirited girls, and Richard hid a smile. He was still angry at being forced to make these marriages, but it did help that both boys were so likable.
“You called her ‘Aenor,’” Friedrich interjected. “I thought her name was Eleanor?”
“It is. Aenor is the Breton form. Geoffrey named her after our lady mother,” Richard explained, thinking that this was one of the few times when he’d been pleased with his brother, for their father had been quite vexed by that, just as Geoffrey had intended.
“Breton?” Friedrich pondered that for a moment. “Is that what she speaks . . . Breton?”