The Heart of the Lion - Plaidy Jean (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗

‘Who would dare do this?’

‘I would dare, John. I am your mother and during the King’s absence I rule this land. If you wish to hold what you have in this country then stay here, and keep what you have intact, for with God’s help I will strip you of every possession you have if you dare conspire with your brother’s enemies against him.’

She left him then. John bit his lips and foamed with anger. He would show her who was master. He had men to follow him. He was going to set sail for France. He was going to see Philip, work with Philip, and together they would rob Richard of his crown.

But to lose everything in England! She meant it, and she could do it. Suppose he lost everything in England – and Normandy not in his grasp! Could he trust the King of France who had been so friendly with Richard but recently?

His schemes were crumbling. How could he take the risk?

He gave way to temper. He tore at his clothes; he lay on the floor and kicked. He gnawed the rushes as his father used to do in his outburst of fury.

No one dared approach him.

John and his mother were on uneasy terms. She had shown so clearly whose side she was on; and responsible men of the country ranged themselves beside her.

Several months passed and there came news that the King was sailing for home. John was angry and frustrated. Richard had not after all captured Jerusalem; this crusade had achieved the capture of Acre and three years’ truce – not much for all the expense that had been incurred, pointed out John; but few listened to him. The King was coming home. It was not the time to range themselves about his young brother. John might talk of the perilousness of journeys, but no one listened.

Christmas came. Some pilgrims arrived in the country, with the news that they had seen the King’s ship at Brindisi but that Richard was not there.

Speculation was rife. Where was the King? What would the next news be? John’s hopes were high. It was time the King returned. If the pilgrims were in England so should he be.

‘He has met some disaster,’ he said to Hugh Nunant. ‘Depend upon it.’

‘Alas, we must depend on nothing,’ answered Hugh. ‘We must walk very carefully now that your mother is here.’

‘Richard was always her favourite,’ said John sulkily. But he was full of hope. He was sure Richard was dead.

Messengers came to him from the King of France. The news they brought was startling. Philip enclosed the copy of a letter he had received from the Emperor of Germany. King Richard of England was his prisoner, ran the letter; he was to be held for ransom. The whereabouts of his prison was unknown but it was somewhere in the Emperor’s territory.

It was impossible to keep such news to himself. Moreover travellers coming into England reported that they had heard of the King’s capture.

Eleanor was in despair. She conferred with the Archbishop of Rouen. She raved against the injustice done to the man who had done more for Christendom than any other living at the time. He had sacrificed a great deal, he had placed his kingdom in jeopardy for the sake of the Holy War, and what had happened to him, he was imprisoned, not by a Saracen, which would have been understandable, but by those who should have been his friends.

She was desperate. She prayed that God might overlook the wickedness of her youth and not visit her sins on her innocent sons. She spent hours on her knees calling to the virgin. ‘Mother of Mercies, help a miserable mother.’ But she was not of a nature to rely on prayer alone.

First she considered going in search of him; then the possibility of what might happen in her absence if she did deterred her from this action. She must stay here. When he was released there must be a kingdom for him to govern.

But what could she do? Would the Pope help? He could demand Richard’s release immediately if he wished. But why should he go against the wishes of powerful Henry?

She was desperate and uncertain and as she passed one of the rooms she heard the mournful strumming of a lute.

She looked inside to see who was there and saw Blondel de Nesle, one of Richard’s favourite minstrels. He was seated on a stool and as he played a sorrowful dirge the tears ran down his cheeks.

‘What ails you?’ asked Eleanor.

‘My lord’s absence, my lady.’

‘I believe you were a favourite of his. He loved you dearly.’

‘’Twas so, my lady. I would have fain stayed with him and begged to do so, but he wouldn’t have it and sent me here.’

‘Do not weep, pretty boy. He will return.’

When she had left him Blondel continued to weep.

He must return, he said to himself, or I shall die.

BLONDEL’S SONG

The frustration which had overwhelmed Richard when he was first brought to the Castle of Durenstein had given way to resignation. He had endured hardship during his campaigns and had never complained on that score, so that now he found himself a prisoner in an alien land, he could shrug aside any physical inconveniences.

That it should have been Leopold into whose hands he had fallen was indeed galling and that Leopold’s overlord should be the Emperor Henry VI of Germany was a further ironic twist. During the first weeks of his captivity he had asked himself what could possibly happen next; and now it seemed that fate might decide to allow his brother John to succeed in making himself King.

But his resilience had never failed him yet. There was that in him which could overawe those about him. Even when he had faced Leopold and been obliged to hand over his sword the Duke of Austria had quailed before him. He might be a prisoner but he was still Coeur de Lion, the greatest and most renowned soldier in the world. No one could forget that and when they stood before him and he drew himself to his full height and gave them his cold stare their stature seemed to decrease and they trembled. It was amusing. He had no fear of them. That was the secret. That was his great quality. Whatever the situation, Richard was the one who struck fear into his opponent not they into him whatever their advantage.

He had seen that when the Duke of Austria brought him here he was uncertain what should be done with him, and had immediately despatched messengers to his Emperor for instructions because he feared the responsibility of holding King Richard. Poor Leopold, he had always been a braggart and braggarts were notoriously men of straw, crowing like cockerels in a farmyard to call attention to their strength lest it should be suspected that they had none.

So Richard had passed his first weeks in Durenstein speculating on the possibility of escape. It might seem remote and it was clearly because his captors feared they could not hold him that they had chosen such a spot as Durenstein. It seemed impregnable with iron bars set across the narrow window which was cut out of the thick stone wall. The natural rock formed part of the castle wall on one side and below were the craggy rocks and the River Danube. Escape that way seemed out of the question. There might be other ways. His custodian Hadamar von Kuenring feared it, and he was a very anxious man. But during his first days in the castle von Kuenring had come to him being most anxious to impress on him that he was well aware that the King was a very special prisoner and he had no desire to show disrespect; indeed he was eager to do everything possible – providing he did not go against the wishes of his master Leopold – to make Richard’s stay at Durenstein comfortable.