“No, she speaks French, for that is the native tongue of the Breton dukes. I do not think her mother, Constance, speaks any Breton at all.” For the first time, Richard thought about his sister-in-law’s reaction to the marriage. She’d be furious, but he was not overly concerned about that. He had no fondness for Geoffrey’s widow, thinking she’d proved herself to be quite untrustworthy during her marriage to his brother, urging him to ally with the French king and to lay claim to Aquitaine.
Leo had little interest in his brother’s bride and wanted to know now what languages Anna spoke. He looked pleased when Richard said Anna spoke Greek and Armenian, and her French had improved dramatically since she’d joined his sister Joanna’s household. “Very good! I speak some Greek, too. Our grandmother was the daughter of the Greek emperor in Constantinople and our father insisted that we learn it, saying we should be proud of that, being able to claim an emperor in our family.”
Leo had straddled a chair, clearly planning to stay for a while, but he rose reluctantly to his feet when Hadmar reminded him that their lord father planned to depart within the hour. As they went charging into the stairwell like young colts, Hadmar lingered for a moment to say his own farewell to the English king.
Richard had not seen the Austrian ministerialis since he’d been transferred from Leopold’s custody to Heinrich’s, and he was pleased to have this opportunity for a few words. “You made my confinement more bearable than it might otherwise have been, Hadmar, and I will not forget that. I thank you for your courtesy, your kindness . . . and your advice,” he added, with a slight smile. “I would hope that you’ve not lost favor with your duke because of it.”
“He was not pleased with me after your trial, for he thought I welcomed your vindication too enthusiastically. But it passed, as he knows I would be loyal to him till my body’s final breath. And he knows, too, that I do what few dare—I always tell him the truth, and every ruler needs such a man.”
“Yes, they do, indeed.” Richard found himself thinking of his own truth-teller, Fulk de Poitiers. The Bishop of Speyer had assured him that his men would soon be freed, and he hoped so, for he’d missed his irascible, shrewd, and sarcastic clerk, a man as loyal to him as Hadmar was to Leopold. Did Heinrich have any such men? He very much doubted it.
Hadmar bowed, but then hesitated, his hand on the door. He had nothing that would justify his suspicions, much less constitute proof. It was just that he’d never known the emperor to yield so easily. But Heinrich had given the English king the kiss of peace, witnessed by every man present at the Imperial Diet. Would he dare to disavow that? Could he be so careless of his own honor? No, surely not. Why burden Richard with his own misgivings when they were likely no more than shadows and smoke?
“Godspeed, my lord Lionheart,” he said, and moved into the stairwell after his duke’s sons.
HUBERT WALTER HAD BEEN horrified when Richard confided that for the first weeks of his detention, he’d been watched at all times by men with drawn swords, and the bishop was reassured now to see that his new German guards were playing a dice game, yet more proof that the king’s circumstances had changed for the better. “I’d hoped they’d have been removed altogether,” he admitted.
Richard had hoped so, too, but he merely shrugged. “They are polite and seem to think it is an honor to be guarding a king. The Bishop of Speyer even found one who speaks a little French; very little, if truth be told. Still better than my German, though.” Gesturing toward the table, he said, “There are the letters I want you to take to England. William already has his. Did I tell you I have a scribe now? According to the bishop, the emperor thought it was not fitting that a king should be writing his own letters and kindly provided one for me.”
Hubert smiled, for Richard’s voice had been dripping with sarcasm. “I was trying to think,” he continued, “who’d make a better spy than a scribe. Aside from a royal confessor, no one.”
“Jesu forfend,” Hubert said, only half jokingly, for violating the sanctity of the confessional was a serious sin. “I assume the letters are to the queen and your justiciars.”