No wonder the terror of his name endured for centuries in Palestine, and that the Arab chided his starting horse with, "Dost think that yonder is the Malek Rik?" while the mother stilled her crying child by threats that the Malek Rik should take it.
These violent exertions seriously injured Richard's health, and a low fever placed him in great danger, as well as several of his best knights. No command or persuasion could induce the rest to commence any enterprise without him, and the tidings from Europe induced him to conclude a peace, and return home. Malek-el-Afdal came to visit him, and a truce was signed for three years, three months, three weeks, three days, three hours, and three minutes-thus so quaintly arranged in accordance with some astrological views of the Saracens. Ascalon was to be demolished, on condition free access to Jerusalem was allowed to the pilgrims; but Saladin would not restore the piece of the True Cross, as he was resolved not to conduce to what he considered idolatry. Richard sent notice that he was coming back with double his present force to effect the conquest; and the Sultan answered, that if the Holy City was to pass into Frank hands, none could be nobler than those of the Malek Rik. Fever and debility detained Richard a month longer at Joppa, during which time he sent the Bishop of Salisbury to carry his offerings to Jerusalem. The prelate was invited to the presence of Saladin, who spoke in high terms of Richard's courage, but censured his rash exposure of his own life.
On October 9th, 1193, Coeur de Lion took leave of Palestine, watching with tears its receding shores, as he exclaimed, "O Holy Land! I commend thee and thy people unto God. May He grant me yet to return to aid thee!"
The return from this Crusade was as disastrous as that from the siege of Troy. David, Earl of Huntingdon, the Scottish King's brother (the Sir Kenneth of the Talisman), who had shared in all Richard's toils and glories, embarked at the same time, but was driven by contrary winds to Alexandria, and there seized and sold as a slave. Some Venetian merchants, discovering his rank, bought him, and brought him to their own city, where he was ransomed by some English merchants, and conducted by them to Flanders; but while sailing for Scotland, another storm wrecked him near the mouth of the Tay, near the town of Dundee, the name of which one tradition declares to be derived from his thankfulness-_Donum Dei_, the Gift of God. He founded a monastery in commemoration of his deliverance.
The two queens, Berengaria and Joan, were driven by the storm to Sicily, and thence travelled through Italy. At Rome, to their horror, they recognized the jewelled baldric of King Richard exposed for sale; but they could obtain no clue to its history, and great was their dread that he had either perished in the Mediterranean waves, or been cut off by the many foes who beset its coasts.
His ship had been driven out of its course into the Adriatic, where the pirates of the Dalmatian coast attacked it. He beat them off, and then prevailed on them to take him into their vessel and land him on the coast of Istria, whence he hoped to find his way to his nephew Otho, Count of Saxony, elder brother of Henry, King of Jerusalem. This was the only course that offered much hope of safety, since Italy, France, Austria, and Germany were all hostile, and the rounding Spain was a course seldom attempted; so that it was but a choice of dangers for him to attempt to penetrate to his own domains. Another shipwreck threw him on the coast between Venice and Aquileia; he assumed a disguise, and, calling himself Hugh the Merchant, set out as if in the train of one of his own knights, named Baldwin de Bethune, through the lands of the mountaineers of the Tyrol. The noblesse here were mostly relatives of Conrade of Montferrat; and Philippe Auguste having spread a report that Richard had instigated his murder, it was no safe neighborhood. He sent one of his men to Count Meinhard von Gorby, the first of these, asking for a safe-conduct, and accompanying the request with a gift of a ruby ring. Meinhard, on seeing the ring, exclaimed, "Your master is no merchant. He is Richard of England: but since he is willing to honor me with his gifts, I will leave him to depart in peace."
However, Meinhard sent intelligence to Frederic of Montferrat, Conrade's brother, through whose domains Richard had next to pass. He sent a Norman knight, called Roger d'Argenton, who was in his service, to seek out the English King; but d'Argenton would not betray his native prince, warned Richard, and told Frederic that it was only Baldwin de Bethune. Not crediting him, the Marquis passed on the intelligence to the Duke of Austria; and Richard, who had left Bethune's suite, and was only accompanied by a page, found every inhabited place unsafe, and wandered about for three days, till hunger, fatigue, and illness drove him to a little village inn at Eedburg.
Thence he sent his servant to Vienna, a distance of a few miles, to change some gold bezants for the coin of the country. This attracted notice, and the page was carried before a magistrate, and interrogated. He professed to be in the service of a rich merchant who would arrive in a day or two, and, thus escaping, returned to his master, and advised him to hasten away; but Richard was too unwell to proceed, and remained at the inn, doing all in his power to avert suspicion-even attending to the horses, and turning the spit in the kitchen. His precautions were disconcerted; the page, going again to Vienna, imprudently carried in his belt an embroidered hawking-glove, which betrayed its owner to be of high rank; and being again seized and tortured, confessed his master's name and present hiding-place.
Armed men were immediately sent to surround the inn, and the Mayor of Vienna, entering, found the worn-out pilgrim lying asleep upon his bed, and aroused him with the words, "Hail, King of England! In vain thou disguisest thyself; thy face betrays thee."
Awakening, the Lion-heart grasped his sword, declaring he would yield it to none but the Duke. The Mayor told him it was well for him that he had fallen into their hands, rather than into those of the Montferrat family; and Leopold, arriving, reproached him for the insult to the Austrian banner, which indeed was far more dishonored by its lord's foul treatment of a crusading pilgrim, than by its fall into the moat of Acre. He was conducted to Vienna, and thence to the lonely Castle of Tierenstein, where he was watched day and night by guards with drawn swords. Leopold sent information of his capture to the Emperor, Henry VI., who bore a grudge to Richard for his alliance with Tancred, who had usurped Sicily from the Empress Constance; he therefore offered a price for the illustrious prisoner, and placed him in the strong Castle of Triefels. Months passed away, and no tidings reached him from without. He deemed himself forgotten in his captivity, and composed an indignant _sirvente_ in his favorite Provencal tongue. The second verse we give in the original, for the sake of being brought so near to the royal troubadour:
"Or sachen ben, mici hom e mici baron,
Angles, Norman, Peytavin, et Gascon,
Qu'yeu non hai ja si pauore compagnon
Que per ave, lou laissesse en prison.
Faire reproche, certes yeu voli. Non;
Mais souis dos hivers prez."
Or, as it may be rendered in modern French:
"Or sachent bien, mes hommes, mes barons,
Anglais, Normands, Poitevins, Gascons,
Que je n'ai point si pauvre compagnon
Que pour argent, je le laisse en prison.
Faire reproche, certes, je ne le veux. Non;
Mais suis deux hivers pris."
This melancholy line, "Two winters am I bound," is the burden of the song, closing the recurring rhymes of each stanza. In the next he complains that a captive is without friends or relations, and asks where will be the honor of his people if he dies in captivity. He laments over the French King ravaging his lands and breaking the oaths they had together sworn while he is "_deux hivers pris_," and speaks of two of his beloved troubadour companions by name, as certain to stir up his friends in his cause, and to mourn for his loss while he is "_deux hivers pris_."