THEY TRAVELED AT A fast pace, reminding Richard of the urgency with which he’d been rushed to Dürnstein. He did not believe he was being taken to Annweiler; why would Heinrich want to send him to some paltry German village? The position of the sun told him that they were heading west, but he knew no more than that. With every mile they rode, though, his misgivings kept pace. His guards were of a different sort from the men who’d watched him at Dürnstein or the Bishop of Speyer’s palace. He’d seen their ilk before, had hired some of their brethren himself—routiers whose swords were for sale to the highest bidder, untroubled by qualms of conscience and usually very good at what they did, which was to unleash hell at the command of the lord who’d paid them. He found it even more troubling that the lord giving those commands was Markward von Annweiler, for any man who’d gained Heinrich’s trust was not one to be overly burdened with scruples himself. But no matter how he tried to untangle this Gordian knot, he made no progress. Heinrich had professed belief in his innocence in front of his own Imperial Diet. The German bishops and lords knew of the terms agreed upon for his release. Richard did not see how the emperor could disavow such a public commitment. So what did Heinrich hope to gain? Where was he being sent and—more important—why?
The road wound through a dark, primal forest that stretched as far as the eye could see. The patches of sky visible above the sentinel spruce and bare branches of silver beech were now splattered with clouds. Expecting to meet Heinrich at the imperial palace, Richard had chosen the more elegant of the two mantles he’d been given in Dürnstein, and he soon wished he’d selected the warmer one, for the April air had a wintry chill. They rode in silence, stopping only to rest the horses briefly and to allow the men to relieve themselves, and as soon as he’d dismounted, Richard found himself ringed by drawn swords again. His attempts to pry answers from Markward proved futile; the other man merely smiled, saying they had not much farther to go, that Annweiler was only twenty or so miles from Speyer. And with that, Richard had to be content.
The sun had begun its slow slide toward the west, haloing the clouds in crimson and gold, when the mountain peaks came into view, three rocky crags still glazed with snow at their summits. All three were crowned with castles, but only one held Richard’s gaze, for it seemed to be floating on the mists swirling about its lower slopes. Backlit by the dying sun, its sandstone walls and towers rose up against the sky like a bloodred scar, and Richard’s first thought was this was a fortress impregnable to assault, even more formidable than Dürnstein.
Markward signaled for a halt and then turned his horse, reining in beside Richard, who at once said sharply, “Do not tell me that is Annweiler.”
“The town is below in the valley,” Markward said amiably, “hidden in the mist. But you can see the castle quite clearly, even at this distance. That is Trifels. Mayhap you’ve heard of it, my lord?”
Richard had, for the notoriety of that red sandstone stronghold had spread well beyond the borders of Germany. Trifels was where prisoners of state and the most dangerous enemies of the empire were held.
CHAPTER TWELVE
APRIL 1193
Trifels, Germany
Richard felt a surge of relief when he saw that he was not to be thrust into one of the castle’s notorious dungeons, said to be black holes of Hell. But the best that could be said of his new lodging was that it was not an underground oubliette. The chamber was small and stark, containing only a pallet and a chamber pot. There were no windows, only several arrow slits, no source of heat, and a lone sputtering oil lamp. And he was again being guarded by men with drawn swords.