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

‘Such a situation as that in which I find myself could scarcely be expected to bring me comfort,’ said Richard. ‘If you can do that you are possessed of supernatural powers.’

Richard smiled wryly as he spoke but there was little humour in this officer of Leopold’s guard. He went on: ‘Your page who betrayed you is here in the castle. I will send him to you that he may serve you. We hold another of your men, William de l’Estang, and I shall put nothing in the way of your enjoying the companionship of your friend.’

This was indeed good news. William de l’Estang was a man Richard had always liked and his company would be very welcome.

His young page was brought to his cell and fell on his knees before the King who raised him up and embraced him.

‘My lord, Sire,’ cried the boy and began to weep.

Richard stroked his hair. ‘I understand, little one. The cruel men threatened you.’

‘To tear out my tongue and to put out my eyes.’

‘And would have done it too, God curse them. All is well. Have no fear now.’

‘But, my lord, I led them to you.’

‘Nay, they would have found me. Dry your tears. Serve me well and it shall be as it ever was.’

The boy fell once more on to his knees and kissed Richard’s feet.

It was pleasant to have him.

The days began to pass. Richard was allowed to walk out on to the ramparts as long as he was surrounded by guards. William de l’Estang came and spent the hours of daylight with him; they played chess together and sometimes von Kuenring would play against one of them while the other looked on. Von Kuenring gave Richard a lute and while they played chess the page would play softly. Richard himself often played it and the three of them would sing together.

Richard’s voice which was powerful could often be heard in the castle and it was marvelled that one who was a captive could so forget his woes in such songs, many of which were gay.

In fact they marvelled at Richard who did not seem to resent his captors. He liked to test his physical strength with his guards in the courtyard where he would wrestle with them much to the amusement of the onlookers. He selected the tallest and strongest looking men for his opponents and the rest of the guards would watch in amazement, for invariably Richard proved himself the stronger.

Then he would go to his cell and play chess or sing. He was composing a sirvente of seven stanzas which he said would tell the world – if it ever heard it – how he felt about his prison.

Sometimes he would talk to William de l’Estang of escape. Was it possible? Could they scale those rocky walls? The guards were ever watchful. Every night special men came to his cell. They were the biggest and most powerful soldiers in the Duke’s army, and that was why they had been chosen to guard Richard. They placed themselves about his bed and through the night sat there, their great swords at their sides.

‘If we were to escape,’ said de l’Estang, ‘where should we go? We should be discovered in a short time and put in an even stronger fortress.’

Richard agreed.

‘If we could but get a message to my mother . . .’

‘But how? We are watched day and night.’

‘I know not,’ said Richard. ‘But help must come from somewhere.’

When he was most desperate he turned to his music. It comforted him more than anything.

He sang the first verses of his sirvente to William. Poignantly it expressed the plaintive lament of the prisoner.

‘It is a little like a song I composed with Blondel de Nesle some time ago. Do you remember Blondel, William?’

‘I do, Sire. A handsome boy and devoted to you.’

‘He wished to come with me. If I had allowed him to he might well be here with me now. I wondered whether he would have lost his eyes or his tongue for my sake. I would not have had it so. Our poor little page lives in perpetual remorse. Comfort him, William. Make sure he knows that I understand.’

‘You yourself with your usual generosity have conveyed it, Sire.’

‘I hope Blondel reached England safely. He is a good boy and a fine minstrel.’

‘I doubt your brother will appreciate that.’

‘Let us hope so, William. Send for the page. Let him sing for us. You and I will go to the chess board and get a game while daylight lasts.’

The news was spreading through Europe. Richard a prisoner and none knew where. But there was a firm belief that he was in the hands of Leopold of Austria and that meant that Henry of Germany would have jurisdiction over him.

John was gleeful. The news couldn’t have been better. He chuckled over it with Hugh Nunant. Philip of France was sending secret messages to him. Nothing could have suited them better. Philip was amused. He remembered the altercation between Richard and Leopold on the walls of Acre. Was Richard regretting his hasty action now? No, the answer must be. Richard would remain aloof and dignified implying that he would do it again even if he had pre-knowledge that later he would be the Duke’s prisoner. There was something fine about Richard. Would to God, thought Philip, that he were my prisoner.

And here he was trying to form an alliance with John. It was all for the good of France. He sent a message to the Prince. ‘If Richard is in the hands of Henry of Germany, a fact on which all rumour seems to agree, it is our good fortune. The longer he remains there the better.’

They should offer Henry money to keep him a prisoner until the end of the year 1194. He, Philip, would be prepared to pay fifty thousand marks of silver to Henry of Germany if he would hold Richard until that time and keep his place of captivity a secret. Philip thought John should offer the Emperor another thirty thousand. ‘Of course,’ added the King of France, ‘it might be wiser to pay the Emperor month by month, for if we paid a large sum in advance and Richard escaped the money would be wasted. One thousand pounds of silver say for every month the Emperor held Richard.’ They might add that they would jointly be prepared to pay the large sum of one hundred and fifty marks of silver if the Emperor would give the prisoner into their care.

Philip’s eyes shone at the idea. He could picture Richard’s riding in the centre of his guards, coming to him, to be his loving hostage as he had been once before.

John was excited by all this intrigue and he believed it could not be long before he was on the throne of England.

Queen Eleanor was deeply distressed. She who had never been pious now spent long hours on her knees reproving herself, asking God if he were punishing her son for her past misdeeds.

‘What can I do?’ she demanded of the Archbishop of Rouen. ‘My son’s dominions here and in Normandy are threatened on all sides. I must go and search for him, but if I do what will happen here and in Normandy? You know how he suffered from his fevers. I greatly fear he may not survive the life of a prisoner.’

The Archbishop soothed her by recalling Richard’s fine physique. ‘There is no man to compare with him,’ he insisted. ‘He has the strength of twenty men.’

‘If I but knew where he was . . .’

‘What should we do then?’

‘Bring him back.’

‘It is certain that they would want a ransom.’

‘Then they must have a ransom.’

‘Who knows what terms they will insist on.’

‘Whatever the terms, they must be accepted. Anything . . . anything is preferable to the death of the King.’

Then she began to talk of her sins in the past and to cry out in her wretchedness that she believed she was paying for them now.

The Archbishop sent one of the minstrels to attempt to soothe her with his music. Blondel de Nesle crept silently in and seating himself in a corner started to play.

She listened, charmed by music as she ever was.