Tuck, Hanno, good King Richard and myself — for there is, I fear, only a little allotted time left for me on this Earth, and much, much more to tell.
The rain emptied from a bruise-black sky, dropping in waterfall sheets that hammered the face of the river and bounced off the dark wooden boards of our sailing barge in a continuous series of tiny explosions. We were damp and miserable, Hanno, myself and four young English Cistercian monks, crowded under a sodden canvas awning in the prow of the long boat, hooded or cowled and glumly watching the dank wooded hills of Germany slide past on the far slopes of the riverbanks hour after dismal hour.
The abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge, as befitted their superior rank, were ensconced in the square wooden cabin in the stern of the boat. It was drier in there, protected from the rain and river spray, but it smelled very strongly of rotting fish. As I was the leader of this company, I could perhaps have insisted on joining the abbots in their fishy box, but I found their Latin conversations schoolmasterly and tedious, and to be honest, I preferred to be at the front of the craft with Hanno. At least there I could see whatever was coming round the next bend. I had not forgotten the disastrous attack by river pirates in London; here, many hundreds of miles from home, halfway up the River Main in northern Bavaria, I felt that anything could happen.
The sailing barge — a flat-bottomed craft, eighty foot long, twenty foot wide, with one mast and a huge square rusty-red sail — was owned by a man named Adam. A stout, fair-haired Londoner with the clear blue eyes of a Norseman, Adam had been trading on these rivers for ten years or more — he also happened to be Perkin’s uncle. My red-haired waterman friend had recovered from the pirate attack on the Thames and, far from blaming me for the knocks he had taken during the kidnapping of little Hugh, he seemed to feel a sense of guilt that my party had been attacked while we were in his charge, on board his skiff. Complimenting him on his fighting skill, I had made him a gift of an old short sword; now, in these dangerous, foreigner-filled lands, he had taken to wearing it all the time.
Perkin was out of sight to me at the moment, in the stern behind the abbots’ cabin, manning the rudder and steering the barge on a tack that would take us to a bend in the river. There, with the minimum of fuss, Adam and he would put the rudder across, then the boom would swing and the red sail would flap and crack briefly, and we would find ourselves on a course that would sweep us diagonally across to the other side of the river. Thus, in an endless series of elongated zigzags, we had made our way up the great rivers of Germany. When the wind was dead against us, Perkin and Adam, occasionally aided by the young monks, would pole the craft along in the shallower water by the banks. And when necessary Hanno and myself would join the monks at the six long pinewood sweeps that we carried on board, using our muscles to row us slowly upstream, deeper into the heart of the Holy Roman Empire, deeper into the lair of our King’s enemies.
Perkin had arranged for me to hire Adam for the journey, although the silver I paid him was not mine but from the private treasure chest of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. The Queen had also given me a goodly quantity of coin to pay the tolls on the rivers, and to cover sundry expenses on the long journey. She had been understandably cool with me when I met her at Westminster Palace not two hours after the end of Robin’s inquisition. The Queen was very fond of Robin, and news of my betrayal had evidently reached her. But she did not mention the inquisition at all, and I was in no state to speak rationally of it, so we confined our discussion to the hazards of the journey and the difficulties I might face in finding her son. The meeting had been brief; when we were done, she handed me a fat purse and advised me to collect my two abbots and their entourage of monks and leave as swiftly as possible for Germany. That suited me, for I had no desire to linger in England: the word ‘Judas!’ was still ringing in my ears and I was haunted by the image of the two rotting bird-quarried heads atop the gatehouse in Kirkton, which I felt had cursed our departure only a few weeks ago. I tried not to think about Robin, or of his fiery fate at the hands of the Templars. Thus, in the grey light before dawn, the very next day after the inquisition, my company and I glided slowly down the Thames in Adam’s big sailing barge, The Crow, heading out to the sea to begin our quest to find King Richard.
Adam was a sturdy man, honest and not given to much emotion or boasting, but he knew the rivers of Europe, he said, as well as any living Englishman. We were in good hands, Perkin assured me; his uncle was a master sailor, a waterman of the first rank, and the ship was as robust as the man. The Crow was not, however, a handsome craft, and neither was it a comfortable berth. Our travelling conditions had worsened two days ago in Frankfurt when the hull was filled to deck-level and higher with logs of cut hardwood timber, leaving even less room for a passel of damp, irritable passengers. It was the third cargo we had carried so far: Adam had insisted that if he was to take us and his beloved vessel up the German rivers, he must be allowed to trade as well; his was, after all, a working boat. I was not unhappy about this, for trade gave us an ostensible reason to be travelling so far from home; and I did not want to broadcast our true intent. There were many powerful folk in the lands we were to travel through who might wish our mission to fail.
Adam looked set to make a healthy sum on this journey: he had loaded hundreds of sacks of tightly packed, untreated wool at a wharf below the Tower of London and carried them, in a rough and very unpleasant two-day crossing of the North Sea, to the Low Countries. At Utrecht, while the two abbots and I paid a courtesy visit to Bishop Baldwin van Holland at his grand palace in the city, Adam remained at the docks and arranged for the barge to be unloaded and loaded once more to the gunnels, this time with fat bales of good Flemish finished cloth.
The call that Boxley, Robertsbridge and I paid on Bishop Baldwin was the first of many visits to grand princes of the Church in the Germanic realms, and while I did not have any particular liking for these two venerable abbots in my charge, I could see the wisdom of dispatching such respected churchmen to seek out King Richard’s whereabouts. As the sailing barge worked its slow way up the River Rhine, we stopped at Cologne, Koblenz and Mainz, and many smaller towns, each time finding shelter with the local abbot, or bishop or archbishop, and each time, as well as receiving the lavish hospitality due to high-ranking English clergymen, we gained a little news of the local region — and sometimes of King Richard.
The four monks who had been brought along as servants and secretaries to the abbots, as well as providing much-needed muscle power, fully proved their worth in the gathering of intelligence about our sovereign. For while the more important prelates sometimes proved reluctant to discuss rumours concerning the whereabouts of our captive King, the monks were untroubled by such discretion as they mingled in the refectory, the wash-house and the dormitory, swapping gossip with the other low-ranking clergy. In this manner they were able to pick up invaluable scraps of information.
It was as we made our way upriver from Cologne, a strong northerly wind directly at our back propelling the clumsy barge with an unusual and welcome celerity, that one of the monks, a keen young man named Damian, had reported excitedly that he had learned the King’s whereabouts. Two clerks in the cathedral’s cloister had told him that Richard was being held at Duke Leopold’s castle of Durnstein in Austria. While it was encouraging to have news of Richard, any news at all, my spirits nevertheless sank a little at this. Hanno said that Durnstein was a very long way south, on the mighty Danube River near Vienna. To get there would mean leaving Adam and Perkin and The Crow in northern Bavaria, crossing a vast wooded and mountainous wilderness on horseback until we reached the Danube, then hiring a ship to carry us downriver to the castle. It was a daunting thought; even the rough discomfort of the English sailing barge seemed preferable to launching ourselves into the vast unknown.
I had another reason to feel uneasy: while I had been exploring the streets of Cologne, loitering by the busy wharves to watch the traders unload their exotic merchandise by the wide shimmering expanse of the Rhine, I had the strange notion that I was being followed. When I stopped briefly to pray at the old cathedral, at the shrine for the relics of the Three Kings who first adored the baby Jesus, I was certain that I could feel unfriendly eyes watching me from among the throng of pilgrims. At one point, walking alone down a darkened alleyway near the marketplace, I felt the presence of enemies at my back so strongly that I whirled around and drew my sword: but, of course, there was no one there and I felt a fool. I scanned the faces in the streets of Cologne for someone familiar, and often found features that resembled folk that I knew in England, or had met on my travels out East. But always, when I looked again more closely I realized that these were not people I had ever known before. Once I saw a pair of men, half-hidden in a crowd — one very tall, one shorter but immensely strong — and something stirred in my memory. When I looked again, they were gone.
My own enquiries among the local knights for news of King Richard had met with no success. I did, however, gather some cheering tidings from home. A German knight whom I encountered in the palace of the Archbishop of Cologne, and who spoke the most barbarous French, told me that all England was buzzing like a beehive over the news that a famous nobleman, a notorious heretic and worshipper of the Devil, had escaped from the custody of the Knights of the Temple in London. This knight, a pious dullard with a scarred pork-pink slab of a face and a sombre black surcoat, told me that six days ago one Lord Robert Otto had used his demonic powers to slip his iron
