King Richard sat up. He seemed to be recovering swiftly from his ordeal. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the abbot standing before him in his pristine white robes.
‘Ah, it is my lord Abbot Robertsbridge, if I am not mistaken. Good to see you, man. Very good to see you.’
Boxley recoiled just a shade at the King’s words. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I have the honour to be the Abbot of Boxley. My lord Robertsbridge is over there by the door.’
‘Of course he is, of course,’ said the King. ‘And you are both very welcome in my sight. It’s, ah, John, isn’t it?’
The Abbot of Robertsbridge replied from the doorway: ‘We both bear that Christian name, sire. But, if I may make so bold, we have little time for such pleasantries and much to discuss concerning your ransom — and certain events in your kingdom that have occurred in your absence. Your brother, Prince John…’
Leaving the abbots and my King crouched on the dirty earth floor of the root cellar in earnest discussion, I drifted outside to the fading light of the day. Hanno was talking in Bavarian and laughing with Peter the gaoler by the main door of the house, and I wandered over to them as casually as I could. The red-faced man smiled at me and nodded ingratiatingly, and as I approached he seemed about to say something. What he was intending to say, I will never know.
My left arm flashed out and I grabbed him roughly by the throat, squeezing his windpipe with a powerful grip and slamming him back into the wall of the house. My misericorde was in my right hand, and I placed its needle tip under his left eye. Hanno growled at him from over my shoulder.
‘Listen to me, you rancid turd,’ I said, speaking slowly and harshly in English, my eyes boring into his frightened face. ‘That prisoner is a king — the King of England, no less — and you will treat him with the respect he deserves while he is in your care. I want food and wine and clean linen brought to him, and water for washing. And I want it done now.’
I was truly angry. My right hand, the one that held the dagger poised to plunge into his eye, was shaking slightly in my rage. And, as Hanno translated, I glared at Peter, giving him the full force of my righteous ire.
‘Know this,’ I grated, ‘if you mistreat him, if you do not show him the courtesy that is his due, I will take your eyes. And your nose and your lips.’ I tapped him on the mouth with the tip of the misericorde.
Hanno repeated my message in Bavarian. Then I continued: ‘Though it might cost me my life, I will blind you, torture you, and kill you very, very slowly. Then I will come to your house, and kill all your family, and burn it to the ground. And if a cowardly rat such as yourself has any friends, I will kill them all and burn their houses too. Do I make myself clear?’
Even before Hanno had translated my words I could see that Peter understood me. He gibbered something at me, and then Hanno leant forward, his face a stone mask, and shoved the little purse of silver in the man’s mouth, silencing his sobbing words.
Disgusted, I released him and turned away, heading back to the dank cellar to see how my spiritual lords were faring. Behind me the gaoler was shouting for his comrades, and issuing a stream of orders, telling them, I assumed, to bring food and wine immediately.
Unbidden, Robin suddenly came into my mind, his handsome face smiling cruelly at me as he enquired, So, Alan, are you now using fear to bend weaker men to your will? You become more like me every day. I shook my head to rid myself of the sound of Robin’s mocking laughter, and saw that the abbots Boxley and Robertsbridge were emerging from the cellar, looking grave yet satisfied. The gaoler was by now bobbing around me, chattering in Bavarian and offering God knows what services, but I did not deign to look at him. A second man-at-arms had appeared and was in the act of shutting the cellar door when, from within, Richard cried out: ‘Hold! Wait a moment!’ And I put a hand on the man’s arm to halt him.
King Richard stared out at me from his dank and miserable cellar, with the door half-closed, looking directly at me through the gap. He said nothing for a few moments — and then he spoke these words: A lord has one obligation Greater than love itself Which is to reward most generously The knight who serves him well.
My heart was full of wild emotions — anger and love and shame — as the cellar door banged shut on my sovereign lord. And as I turned to join Hanno and the abbots, now impatient to confront Duke Leopold, I thought, I am your loyal soldier, Lionhearted Richard, I am your vassal to command; I swear it now, silently, before no mortal man but before God Almighty himself. I swear it. Till death, I shall always be the King’s man.
We marched straight to the great hall in a tight phalanx of outrage, determined that our encounter with the King should not be denied. The abbots to the fore, we demanded that Leopold’s men-at-arms admit us immediately to the Duke’s presence. Somewhat surprisingly, they offered no resistance but opened the heavy doors. We walked straight into the middle of a lavish celebration.
The hall fell silent as we entered, the feasting stopped, a juggler who had been performing dropped one of his silver balls, letting his jaw hang open. In a ringing voice, my lord Robertsbridge began to inform Duke Leopold in crisp Latin that he had just ended a conference with King Richard in which he had found our lord in chains and lying in his own filth. He was halfway through his demand that our King should be treated with the respect that was his due as a Christian monarch when his voice faltered and came to a halt. I could see why. Robertsbridge had been addressing Duke Leopold, but whereas earlier that morning the Duke had been seated in the position of highest honour that place had now been taken by another man. And though I had never before laid eyes on him, I knew immediately that I was looking at Henry the Sixth of that name, the King of Germany, lord of much of Italy, overlord of Duke Leopold of Austria, God’s anointed representative on Earth, the Holy Roman Emperor himself.
The greatest prince in Christendom was a slight man in his late twenties, medium height, with a bush of curly brown hair beneath a golden crown, and a wispy beard a little lighter in colour perched above a narrow line of a mouth. He looked amused rather than angry at Robertsbridge’s passionate tirade, and when the abbot stuttered to a halt, he raised a pale hand and addressed our party in clear and fluent Latin.
‘My lord abbot, calm yourself, do please compose your spirit,’ the Emperor commanded in a warm tone, but with an edge of cold steel to it. ‘There has been some regrettable misunderstanding, it seems. Certainly King Richard is here in Ochsenfurt, we know that now, and I have just given orders that he should be housed in apartments fitting to his exalted station.’
Robertsbridge put back his shoulders. He poked out a bony accusatory finger at Duke Leopold: ‘That gentleman denied it this very morning. He told me to my face, he swore on his honour that King Richard was not in Ochsenfurt. He lied to-’
‘It seems that my noble cousin Leopold was mistaken,’ the Emperor interrupted smoothly. ‘Some months ago a penniless vagabond pretending to be a Templar knight was arrested in a house of ill-repute within the Duke’s domains and since then we have been trying to ascertain his true identity. As you have been able to confirm this, we are now satisfied that our masquerading vagabond truly is King Richard of England himself.’
‘Since now you recognize who he is — a genuine pilgrim returning from the Holy Land, a noble knight sworn to Christ’s service — then perhaps you will kindly release him to us this instant,’ said Robertsbridge coldly.
‘Alas, alas, there have been many grave charges laid against your King — tales of his consorting secretly with that devil Saladin, betraying the Great Pilgrimage, and even ordering the murder of our cousin Conrad of Montferrat in Acre last year. I am afraid your noble King Richard must answer to these charges before we can consider allowing him to go free.’