A King's Ransom (10 page)

“So . . . you are pilgrims on your way home from the Holy Land.” Either his command of Latin was limited or he preferred to converse in his own tongue, for he addressed himself to the one German-speaking member of their party. “Who are you?”

Suddenly nervous, Arne hesitated, but after getting encouraging smiles from Anselm and Morgan, he took a step closer to the table. “We are led by the Flemish lord Baldwin de Bethune, and our master, Hugh, who is a merchant in fine silks back in his homeland.” The words of his rehearsed story were coming more easily now. “We are traveling, too, with some Templar knights. They ask, my lord count, that you issue a safe conduct allowing them to pass through your domains, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, for whom they fought.”

The count’s face could have been carved from the same stones as his castle for all the emotion he showed; they had no idea what he was thinking. “Did you get to see Jerusalem?” he asked after an uncomfortably long pause. When Arne said they had, he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “So you visited the Holy Sepulchre?” Getting another confirmation from Arne, he reached for the silver wine cup at his elbow and took a sip. “And did you stop in Ragusa?”

Arne gaped at him. “No, lord! We put in for supplies in a town called Pula.” He added hastily that they’d been heading for Trieste, but had been blown off course by the contrary bora winds.

This was met with another silence, and he glanced imploringly toward his companions. Although they’d been unable to follow the conversation, Anselm and Morgan sensed that it was not going well. Deciding it was time to reveal to the count just how much his cooperation would be worth, the chaplain reached for his scrip and passed its contents to Arne. The boy squeezed it tightly for luck and then set it on the table with a flourish, thrilled to be able to hold something so valuable, however briefly.

As it reflected the torchlight, the ring seemed to catch fire, its massive ruby glowing in a setting of beaten gold. “This is a gift from my master, the merchant Hugh,” Arne declared proudly, “to show our appreciation for your goodwill and hospitality, my lord count.”

The count’s eyes had widened at first sight of the ring. He did not pick it up, though, and instead turned and abruptly dismissed his scribe. Leaning back then in his chair, he regarded them pensively. “Your master’s name is not Hugh,” he said at last. “You serve the English king.”

Arne gasped, too stunned to respond. But Morgan had a good ear for languages and he’d picked up a little German from the boy during their months together. Recognizing the words
“englische”
and
“könig,”
he found it all too easy to interpret the horrified expression on Arne’s face, and he began to laugh loudly. His companions were quick to comprehend and Arne and Anselm hastily forced laughter, too. “Tell the count,” Morgan directed the boy, “that our master will be greatly flattered that he could have been mistaken for a king. But we can assure Count Engelbert that he is a mercer and pilgrim, no more than that.”

When Engelbert reached for the ring, they held their breaths. He inspected it without haste, running his thumb over the flaming jewel, the intricate gold leaf design done so lovingly by a Pisan goldsmith. And then he slid it back across the table toward them.

“I cannot accept this. Tell the king of the English that I respect his vow and his struggle to free the Holy Land from the infidel Saracens. But tell him this, too—that he is in grave peril and must leave Görz at once, for I cannot guarantee his safety should word get out of his presence here. The Emperor Heinrich will richly reward any man who delivers your king into his hands.”

A
FTER FINDING AN INN,
Richard and his men had eaten their first hot meal in over a week. He’d then sent Arne and Baldwin to buy horses, and they’d delighted Görz’s horse traders by buying the best animals the town had to offer. Arne was then dispatched with Anselm and Morgan to seek safe conducts from the count, and while he awaited their return, Richard went to the stable to inspect Baldwin’s purchases. They were not as bad as he’d feared, although he soon concluded that Baldwin had been overcharged. When the other man glumly admitted as much, Richard found a smile, assuring Baldwin that paying too much for horses in Görz was not likely to cost him any sleep.

“Sleep.” The word had taken on the sweetness of honey, for none of them had gotten a full night’s rest since leaving Ragusa. They were alone in the stable, the grooms having gone off for their evening meal, and so they could at last talk freely, having remained mute for most of the day, not wanting to draw attention to themselves by speaking French. Stooping to examine a roan gelding’s foreleg, Richard straightened up with an effort, feeling as if he’d aged twenty years overnight.

“I never paid beds much mind unless one had a woman in it,” he admitted to Baldwin, “but right now the pallets back in that filthy, flea-ridden inn are looking better to me than the royal palace at Acre.”

Baldwin nodded, and pointed toward the shadows where one of the Templars had dozed off while still standing. “We’d best have the innkeeper awaken us in the morn, or else we might well sleep past Christmas. How long dare we stay?”

“That will depend upon how successful Morgan and Anselm are. If they cannot get in to see the count or if he balks at giving safe conducts, we’ll have to leave at first light. But if that ring buys his goodwill, I think we can risk a day or two here. God knows we all need a chance to rest up—”

Richard checked himself, having heard footsteps in the front of the stable. Baldwin tensed, too, and reached over to awaken the Templar, who was instantly alert, his a soldier’s reflexes. The king’s admiral, Robert de Turnham, and Guillain de l’Etang were hurrying toward their stall, their faces taut and troubled, and behind them, Richard caught a glimpse of Anselm and Morgan, trailed by Arne, whose puppylike energy seemed suddenly sapped. It was obvious that Robert and Guillain already knew what had transpired at the castle, but they both stepped aside once they reached Richard, deferring to his chaplain and cousin, and he realized that he was about to receive yet more bad news.

“Are we alone?” Anselm asked in Latin, catching himself from adding “my liege,” for it was not easy to stop using the acknowledgments of rank. “Can we talk here?”

When Richard nodded, Anselm and Morgan exchanged glances and then the Welshman said bluntly, “Count Engelbert . . . He knows who you are. When we presented him with the ring, he said . . .” Morgan paused for breath and to recall the count’s words precisely. “He said, ‘Your master’s name is not Hugh. You serve the English king.’”

“Christ Jesus,” Richard said, very softly. “How could he . . .” He stopped then, for that did not matter. “How did you get away?”

“Did you lead them back here?” Baldwin’s tone was accusing, and both Morgan and Anselm bridled.

“No!” they said in unison, speaking at once and drowning each other out as they tried to explain. Richard held up a hand for silence, pointing then at Morgan to continue. “He did not arrest us. He would not even accept the ring. He said that he respected your vow and what you’d done against Saladin.”

Richard considered this, for once doubting his fabled luck. Could he really have found an honorable man midst Heinrich’s lackeys and lickspittles? “And he said nothing about Conrad?”

Morgan shook his head and Anselm confirmed it. “Nary a word, sire.”

“He did mention Ragusa, lord,” Arne interjected, “asking if we’d stopped there. I said no, of course.”

“But he warned us that we must leave Görz straightaway,” Morgan said bleakly. “He said you were in great danger, that Heinrich has cast a wide net and men will be on the lookout for you everywhere since you could be anywhere.”

Richard was silent for a moment, weighing his rapidly dwindling options. He could not remember ever being so tired or so disheartened. Turning toward the Templar, he told him to fetch the men who’d gone to a tavern across the street from the stable, and sent Arne back to the inn to gather up their belongings. And then he gave the command his aching body and weary brain dreaded, the command they
all
dreaded, saying grimly, “Saddle up.”

M
ETHILDIS OF
A
NDECHS,
former Countess of Pisino and current Countess of Görz, was not happy with her husband. He’d been tossing and turning for hours, making it impossible for her to sleep. It was like sharing a bed with a river eel, and when he rolled over again, this time jabbing her in the ribs with an elbow, she’d had enough.

Sitting up in bed, she shook his shoulder. “You may as well tell me what is troubling you, Engelbert. Neither of us will be getting any sleep this night unless you do.”

He sat up, too, running his hand through his tousled hair. “As you wish, my dear,” he agreed, so readily that she felt a suspicion spark, wondering if he’d deliberately awakened her so they could talk; usually she had to coax him into unburdening himself. He surprised her greatly by what he did next, calling out sharply to his sleeping squire, ordering the befuddled boy to fetch a flagon of wine from the buttery. He was usually an indulgent master, sometimes too indulgent in his wife’s opinion, and the squire was obviously shocked to be torn from sleep and sent off on an errand in the middle of the night. Shivering, he dressed with haste, clutching his mantle tightly as he stumbled toward the door. As soon as they were alone, Engelbert jerked the linen hangings back, allowing the blackness of their cocooned bed to be diluted by the white-gold flames in the hearth.

By now, Methildis was feeling stirrings of alarm. “Engelbert, what is it?” she asked, all her earlier vexation gone from her voice. “What is wrong?” She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. They’d been married for two years, time enough for her to learn he was a worrier by nature, given to conscience pangs and prone to second-guessing himself. But his next words took her breath away.

“The English king is in Görz.”

“What . . . here? Are you sure?”

There was enough light now to see him nod his head. “He sent three of his men to me today, asking for safe conducts. They gave a false name, of course, claimed he was a merchant, traveling with other pilgrims on their way home from the Holy Land. I knew, though, that they lied.”

Methildis was wide-awake now, and enthralled, already envisioning the imperial favor they’d be enjoying for capturing the emperor’s hated foe. “How did you know, Engelbert? What made you even suspect them?”

“Two days ago a man came to me, someone who’d brought me useful bits of information in the past. He said he’d met a sailor in a dockside tavern in Aquileia, whose ship had arrived from Ragusa that past week. The sailor claimed that the English king was in Ragusa, being acclaimed by the count and townspeople as the savior of the Holy Land, and planning to build a great cathedral in their city. That seemed an unlikely story to me and I dismissed it as drunken tavern ramblings. But then these men came seeking safe conducts, and they were so obviously ill at ease that I remembered the Ragusa tale. When I mentioned Ragusa to the stripling who spoke German, he went whiter than a corpse-candle. I still had only suspicions, of course . . . until they gave me a ring as a token of their master’s goodwill—the most magnificent ruby I’ve ever seen.”

“Really?” Methildis breathed, for she dearly loved jewelry. As eager as she was to see it, though, that could wait. “I do not understand, Engelbert. Why did that confirm your suspicions?”

He smiled thinly. “Because no merchant, however wealthy, would ever have given up something of such value. That was a grand gesture only a king would make, a king accustomed to spending lavishly and bestowing largesse without counting the cost.”

That made sense to Methildis. “What happened then? Did they try to deny it?” She doubted the English king was already in custody, for surely he’d have told her, told them all, if that were so. It was hard not to berate him for keeping this secret from her, but she swallowed her reproaches and asked instead if he’d forced them to reveal Richard’s whereabouts. Even if they were still balking, they’d not be able to hold out for long. Her brother had once told her that there were ways of making the bravest man talk, and with so much at stake, Engelbert could not afford to be squeamish.