At Frankfurt — a bustling place filled with hundreds of merchants from all over the Holy Roman Empire intent on making themselves rich, their shops and storehouses and myriad taverns, cook houses, brothels and churches that served their needs, huddled around the skirts of an imposing cathedral — Abbot Boxley (or possibly Robertsbridge) was able to confirm what Hanno had asserted so confidently several days before. King Richard, the Bishop of Frankfurt’s slack-witted cellarer had let slip, was indeed at Ochsenfurt, only two days upriver. The cellarer had been asked to send several barrels of the finest wine to the town, which was currently accommodating a very special guest. How Robertsbridge (or Boxley) had succeeded in worming this information out of the cellarer, I never discovered, but our spirits soared at the discovery we were on the right path, and closing in fast on King Richard.
After several hours spent haggling with the Frankfurt merchants, Adam finally swapped his cargo of Flemish cloth for a load of cut timber, a rare hardwood that was prized for its density, and we set off fully laden the next morning, heading eastwards in the driving rain to bring succour to our captive King.
Two days later, the wet conditions had left us all tired, dripping and irritable. With the exception of Hanno, who was delighted to be back in his homeland, a wide grin splitting his round shaven head and showing off the wreckage of his teeth. It was late afternoon by the time we came round a bend in the river and moored at a wide wooden wharf on the southern bank that belonged to the Premonstratensian monastery — or more properly canonry — of Tuckelhausen. Ochsenfurt was less than a mile away upstream, but we hoped that, in making Tuckelhausen our avowed destination, we might go some way towards averting suspicions as to our true purpose.
Our story, which I had discussed at length with Boxley and Robertsbridge, was that they were paying a visit to Tuckelhausen because they wished to see its famous scriptorium and peruse a rare copy of the Holy Gospel that was housed there. In truth, the Gospel in question was not of any outstanding merit, but few people would question the movements of two such august abbots who had travelled so far to see it. They would tell their hosts how they had taken passage with Adam and Perkin, a couple of fellow countrymen who were transporting a cargo of building timber upriver to Sweinfurt, where the local margrave was strengthening the fortifications of his town. We agreed that I should be presented at Tuckelhausen not as an exalted member of the company but an ordinary man-at-arms, brought along as protection for the churchmen. This was not so far from the truth, and suited me welclass="underline" I had plans that would be better served if I were not shown any of the few courtesies due to my rank as lord of a small manor.
After announcing the abbots’ names and the purpose of our visit to the surly, white-robed canon who had charge of the wharf, he begrudgingly lent us a decrepit mule to carry our baggage, weapons and possessions. And while Adam and Perkin pretended to be attending to repairs on the sailing barge, Boxley, Robertsbridge, the four monks, Hanno and myself began the two-mile trudge in the fading light up a narrow track cut through the forest to the monastery of Tuckelhausen. The mule was particularly stubborn: it had no wish to leave its dry, comfortable stable by the river and venture out in a downpour when it was clearly time for its nightly feed. Only by hauling on its bridle and beating its hindquarters savagely with a hazel switch did we get the beast moving at all.
As we set out on the muddy track, to my left I caught a glimpse of Ochsenfurt itself, a mile away through the still skeletal limbs of the trees. It was a fortress, a compact town with high walls on four sides, built in the shape of a square with each walled side no more than half a mile long, and with four powerful round towers standing guard at each corner. Somewhere inside that stronghold, I mused, most likely in one of the four big towers, my King was being held captive. My sovereign lord, a man I respected as much as any I had met, a warrior I had followed loyally and fought beside in Outremer and with whom I had enjoyed merry-making and fine music, a man who had honoured me with his company and dare I say, friendship, was imprisoned there against his will. His enemies had seized him, a returning pilgrim from the Holy Land, against the laws of God and Man, and were seeking to make themselves rich from the sale of his person, as if he were a slave.
For the first time since I had heard the news of Richard’s capture, I felt a hot surge of genuine anger in my gut. If it were ever within my power, I vowed, I would punish those responsible. And the flame of my quiet fury warmed me as we splashed along the rutted track, hauling the reluctant mule by main force, towards the drab walls of Tuckelhausen.
Abbot Joachim was rather bewildered to find himself host to a bedraggled party of foreigners when we were ushered into his cosy, brazier-warmed chamber. But he greeted his fellow abbots with a kiss of peace and ordered his servants to bring us wine and to prepare food and beds for us. We had presented ourselves at the gates of Tuckelhausen just as night was falling and the church bells were ringing out for Vespers. The monastery doors were shut, but Hanno, who spoke the local Bavarian dialect, had explained to the porters that we were a distinguished party of noble English clergymen and that we must be given entrance even at this late hour.
‘But why, my noble lords, did you not write to advertise that you were paying our humble monastery a visit?’ Abbot Joachim kept on asking. ‘We could have prepared suitably for your visit. I fear we are in a state of some disarray here, readying ourselves for the feast of St George in a month’s time. He is a very popular saint in these parts — this house is dedicated to him, as I’m sure you know — and we have many pilgrims under our roof at this moment. Indeed, the dormitory is quite full, and everything is in the greatest turmoil.’
Joachim was a worried little man, small and plump and sad-looking, with only wisps of white hair around the wrinkled bald patch of his tonsure. And while he spoke to us in Latin, his accent was so strange that it was difficult to understand what he was trying to say. On more than one occasion, we had to ask Hanno to get the Abbot to repeat himself in German so that my bodyguard could translate for us.
‘If only you had given us some notice,’ Joachim went on. ‘Just a few days’ notice…’
‘Only the Lord God Almighty can say what happened to the messenger who carried the letter that we sent you,’ intoned Robertsbridge gravely, and I realized that, for a good Christian, he was rather an accomplished liar. ‘Have you much trouble with bandits in these parts?’ he added.
‘Oh yes, oh most decidedly, yes,’ said Joachim. He seemed relieved to have found a plausible solution to the problem of our unexpected arrival. In fact, the notion that our messenger might have been slaughtered by footpads while attempting to deliver the news of our coming seemed to cheer Abbot Joachim no end. He poured the abbots some more wine, now positively beaming.