A King's Ransom (13 page)

Richard’s jaw muscles clenched. “I saved the men at Ibn Ibrak.”

“Yes, you did,” Baldwin agreed. “But that is not possible now. If you go back there, you will be killed or captured. Think, sire! The Templars could have slipped away when they saw what was happening. They could even have gone back to the inn, for they’d be safe enough with you gone. Instead, they acted to draw the mob’s attention onto themselves and you know why—to give you the time you need to escape. You must honor their choice, my lord. You owe them that.”

Richard wanted to argue. But when Baldwin urged them on, he gave in and turned Roger’s roan stallion away from Udine and followed the Fleming. Once they were sure that they were not being pursued, they slackened their pace, sparing their weary horses as best they could. The day’s clouds had begun to disperse and their way was dimly lit by the emergence of the moon and a scattering of distant stars. They felt the cold more after so many months in the Holy Land and their hands and faces were soon reddened and windburned. The jagged silhouettes of the alpine peaks that rose up on either side of the road only contributed to their claustrophobic sense of being hemmed in, surrounded by dangers, enemies, and hidden perils.

Richard had not spoken for hours and, knowing that they had no comfort to offer, his companions left him alone with thoughts as dark as the December night. Of all he had endured since being shipwrecked on the Istrian coast—the hunger, the cold, the lack of sleep, the indignity of being hunted as if he were a fox with hounds baying on his trail—nothing had shaken him as deeply as the capture of the Templars and crossbowmen, forcing him to admit just how powerless he was, how vulnerable. Fulk had accused him of being unable to conceive of defeat, and the Poitevin clerk was right; he did always expect to prevail over other men, confident of his own abilities and dismissive of his foes. But now he found himself assailed by rare doubts. How many more men would they lose? How could they hope to evade capture if the entire countryside was on the lookout for suspicious strangers? And if he was taken, what then? For the first time, he seriously considered the fate that would await him if he fell into Heinrich’s hands, utterly at the mercy of a man who had none. England’s king, God’s anointed, cast into a German dungeon whilst his lands in Normandy were ravaged by that craven whoreson on the French throne and Johnny claimed his crown. If his misgivings were unfamiliar, so, too, was the emotion that now rode with him on this icy mountain road—fear.

T
HEY COVERED TWENTY-FIVE MILES
before daring to halt at the Benedictine monastery of St Gall in Moggio. There they were accepted by the monks as pilgrims and were able at last to get a desperately needed night’s sleep in the abbey guest hall. They’d hoped to make better time on the Via Julia Augusta, the Roman road that was the main route from Aquileia to the Alps, for it was over twenty feet wide and paved with stones. They soon discovered that great stretches of it were in disrepair, though, and the weather turned nasty; they found themselves riding through snow squalls that sometimes obscured the road altogether. They were in the duchy of Carinthia now, a wild, rugged land where strangers were always regarded with mistrust, bandits roamed the heavily wooded forests, and they’d not be likely to encounter another lord with principles or a transplanted Norman with divided loyalties.

They debated making a stop in the town of Villach, but caution prevailed and they rode on, seeking shelter at another monastery, a Benedictine abbey on the north shore of a vast lake called the Ossiach. The next day, they pushed themselves and their horses to cover more than thirty miles, an impressive feat on winter roads, and as daylight was fading, they were approaching the walled town of Friesach.

The monks at St Gall had told Anselm that Friesach was one of the most prosperous towns in Carinthia, for it was the site of a rich silver mine, which had attracted men eager to seek their fortune. That would make it easier to blend in, they agreed, but they’d already realized it was nonetheless a risk they had to take, for darkness was falling and they were urgently in need of food and rest.

They stabled their horses, but delayed looking for an inn until they were sure it was safe to stay overnight in Friesach. Finding a tavern across from the parish church of St Bartholomew, they ordered a meal while Arne ventured out onto the city streets to eavesdrop, observe, and judge the public mood. They felt oddly uneasy with him gone, so dependent had they become upon him in the past week; his ability to speak German was, they all agreed, truly a Godsend.

The tavern was crowded, the conversation loud and cheerful. From what they’d seen so far of Friesach, it was indeed as the St Gall monks had described—thriving, bustling, and populous. A good place to go unnoticed, certainly safer than Görz, Udine, or Villach. They pitched into a mediocre Advent fish meal with relish, grateful to be out of the cold and out of the saddle, and encouraged to hear other tongues beside German.

Richard had taken a seat in the shadows, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. He knew men thought him arrogant and he supposed he was, but he was also capable of laughing at himself, and as he began to relax and thaw out, he could see the perverse humor in it—that for the first time in his life, he was hoping
not
to attract attention. With a little imagination, he could hear the amused voice of his cousin André de Chauvigny echoing in his ear,
You trying to seem modest and unassuming? You’d have a better chance of flying to the moon and back.
He and André had fought side by side for nigh on twenty years, and he’d have given a great deal to have his cousin here in Friesach. He smiled to himself then, for he’d never admit that to André, of course. Barbed banter was the coin of their realm and heartfelt admissions of affection were rejected out of hand as counterfeit.

Warin had noticed several heavily rouged and powdered women and he leaned over to call them to the other men’s attention. His hopes were dashed, though, as they laughed at him and Fulk asked acidly if he meant to get roaring drunk and start a brawl after he’d gone whoring. He started to defend himself, only to be chided for speaking too loudly, and lapsed into a sulky silence, much to his friends’ amusement. Anselm was growing concerned by their merriment, fretting that the wine was going to their heads after so many hours without food, and he was leaning over to whisper his concern to Richard when he saw the king set down his wine cup with a thud. Following the direction of Richard’s gaze, he went rigid, too, for Arne was back, hastening across the crowded common room toward them, and he was ashen, so pale he looked bloodless.

They quickly made room for him on the bench, all their levity vanishing with their first look at Arne’s face. “A lord named Friedrich von Pettau is at the castle,” he said, so softly they had to strain to hear his voice. “He came all the way from Salzberg, bringing many knights and vowing to capture the English king. The people I spoke with said that rumors have been spreading like the pox. They thought it was a joke, saying the king must have wings for men are claiming to have seen him in dozens of places. But they said Lord Friedrich believes the stories and his men are everywhere, watching the stables, the taverns, alehouses, and, above all, the inns. They said a mouse could not gnaw through the net that has been cast over the town.”

By the time he was done, Arne’s halting words had trailed off into a choked silence. No one spoke after that. Nor did they meet one another’s eyes. During their night at St Gall abbey, they’d come up with an emergency plan, one to fall back upon if all hope seemed gone. But none of them had ever expected to have to make use of it, and now that the moment was upon them, they were stunned.

For once, Richard was not the first into the breach. When he said nothing, Baldwin realized that it was up to him. “We know what must be done,” he said quietly, his gaze moving from one face to another and then back to Richard. “You must go now, leave the town straightaway. We will do what we can to attract as much attention as possible and keep this Lord Friedrich so busy that he will have nary a thought to spare for anyone but us.”

For Richard, this was the nadir of their ordeal. He felt as if he were sacrificing his friends, violating a commander’s paramount duty to see to the safety of his men. And though he would never have admitted it, even to himself, it was a daunting prospect to continue on into the heartland of his enemy’s empire with only young Arne and one lone knight. Getting slowly to his feet, he glanced over at Warin and forced a smile. “It looks as if you’ll be able to swive a whore or two tonight, after all.”

Warin looked stricken, mumbling something inaudible. None of them knew what to say. Richard let his hand rest on Baldwin’s shoulder for a moment. “Do not stint yourselves,” he said, striving without much success for a light tone. “All know the English king is a hopeless spendthrift, after all.” He turned away then, and headed for the door, with Arne and Guillain de l’Etang following close behind. None of them glanced back.

The silence was smothering. Anselm lowered his head to hide tears. Robert de Turnham was slowly clenching and unclenching a fist, muttering under his breath. Warin had already emptied his own cup and now reached over to drain Richard’s. The usually phlegmatic Fulk was daubing at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve, grateful that none noticed, for each man was caught up in his own misery. Morgan was gripping his eating knife so tightly that the handle was digging into his palm. Standing up suddenly, he said, “I am sorry, I cannot do this. I know we agreed that only Guillain was to go with him. But the Lady Joanna will skin me alive if I stay behind in Friesach.” Shoving his knife into its sheath, he fastened his mantle with unsteady fingers and then hurried after Richard.

Baldwin straightened his shoulders. “Well,” he said, “I suppose we’d best get on with it.” He clapped his hands and whistled to catch a servingmaid’s eye, making the universal gesture for more drinks, and then turned back to his companions, beginning to speak French in a clear, carrying voice. The others followed his example, laughing too loudly, leering at the servingmaids, and it was not long before some of the tavern customers were casting curious and speculative glances their way.

CHAPTER FIVE

DECEMBER 1192

Duchy of Austria

T
hey could not be sure where they were, for they did not know how far they’d traveled after fleeing Friesach, and they did not know the date, either, for the days had blurred, one into the other, since their shipwreck on the Istrian coast. Drawing rein on the crest of a hill, they gazed down at the vista unfolding below them—deep woods on either side of the road, and in the distance, shimmering like a Holy Land mirage, the silvery sheen of a great river, curving around a partially walled town, its church spires wreathed in the smoke plumes that were spiraling up into the grey, wintry sky.

For a time, there was silence as they absorbed what they were seeing. Arne was the one to speak first, pointing toward the gleaming ribbon of water. “Is that the Danube?”

He sounded hesitant, afraid to let himself hope, for if it was the Danube, that meant the town on the river’s bank was Vienna, and they were just fifty miles from the border of Moravia and safety. It also meant they’d ridden nigh on a hundred fifty miles in the past three days and nights, a feat they’d have sworn beforehand to be impossible in the dead of winter on these mountain roads.

“It must be the Danube,” Morgan said, with all the conviction he could muster. “Look how wide it is.” Arne let out a jubilant shout, but the men were too exhausted to match his youthful exuberance, and they merely exchanged brief smiles. They decided to send Arne on ahead to confirm that this was indeed Vienna, and as soon as he and Morgan rode on, Richard and Guillain de l’Etang turned off into the woods.

They did not go far from the lightning-seared tree stump that was to serve as a landmark for Arne and Morgan, and once they felt sure they were not visible from the road, they dismounted and hitched their horses to a low-hanging branch. They settled back against the grey trunk of an ancient beech and prepared to wait. They didn’t talk, each man alone with his thoughts, and soon Richard and then Guillain dozed off. They were jolted to wakefulness some time later by the sound of approaching riders and scrambled to their feet, shocked that they could have fallen asleep like that. They were gripping the hilts of their swords, making ready to unsheathe them, when they saw Arne and Morgan coming through the trees.