completely at a loss as to how to proceed. Robertsbridge was all for returning to the Duke and threatening him with excommunication if he did not reveal Richard’s whereabouts. Boxley, I believe, just wanted to go home. For myself, the prospect of returning to Queen Eleanor with the news that I had sung merrily with her son but had not been allowed to speak to him and had been turned away with an obvious lie was unthinkable. I argued that, since his two hired killers were in the vicinity of Ochsenfurt, it was fair to assume that Prince John was in touch with Duke Leopold over the matter of Richard’s ransom. This was bad news, as was the Duke’s refusal to acknowledge that Richard was in his custody. We could only assume that Leopold planned to hand over our King, either to Prince John or to King Philip of France. Helpless to prevent this from happening, our best hope was to remain in Ochsenfurt until the Duke tried to move Richard, at which point it might prove easier to establish contact with him.
The abbots and I were still sitting despondently in the parlour, sipping wine and racking our brains while the day quietly slipped away, when the door crashed open and Hanno came staggering into the room. He was very drunk.
‘I fin’ ’im,’ slurred my Bavarian bodyguard, a thick waft of strong ale billowing out with his breath.
‘You are inebriated, man,’ snapped Robertsbridge. ‘Go to bed and trouble us no more. We have important matters to attend to here.’
‘I find King Richard,’ Hanno said, making an effort to speak our language more clearly. ‘I find your lost lord. Come, I take you to him.’
We hurried out into the street where Hanno introduced us to Peter, a burly man-at-arms in the Ochsenfurt surcoat, who beamed at us with a face as red as the ox device on his chest. He was even drunker than Hanno. He was also, we soon discovered, King Richard’s gaoler.
As we walked towards the southern side of the town, I noticed that there seemed to be some event, a grand arrival of some sort, with trumpets sounding and bells ringing, monks chanting, taking place at the barbican gate, but we were too excited and preoccupied to investigate further. As we walked, Hanno related to us what he had been up to the past six hours, apart from imbibing vast quantities of the local ale. While we went off with the men- at-arms to inspect the third tower, he had slipped away, leaving the town and circling its outer walls until he came to the spot beneath the tower where I had played my vielle the night before. Had we but looked out of the small window in Richard’s cell we would have seen him below us. At this point Hanno interrupted his narrative to hand me my misericorde, and I gratefully sheathed it in my boot. He had found my dagger, along with the marks of the fight, on the ground. He had even found the remains of the vielle and the bow, both sadly beyond repair. Then he had tracked the footsteps of two men, one with long narrow feet, the other with huge round ones, into the wood and had discovered the site of their bivouac. Approaching with caution, Hanno had found the place deserted, but the warm ashes of the cooking fire told him that it had only recently been occupied. According to Hanno’s almost supernatural fieldcraft, the two men had left their camp about dawn and made their way north towards the River Main, possibly planning to escape by boat. As Hanno related his tale, he seemed to grow more sober with every passing moment.
Rather than attempting to track them further, my cunning friend had returned to Ochsenfurt and made for the nearest soldiers’ tavern. There he had set about ingratiating himself with a man-at-arms, buying him several pots of ale. Hanno’s new friend had then taken him to another tavern, and another, in search of the beaming brick-faced idiot who now stood before us: Richard’s gaoler. Hanno, as well as plying the fellow with drink, had promised him a purse of silver if he would allow us to speak with his special prisoner for quarter of an hour. Apparently the buffoon had not been told who his prisoner was, only that he was to guard him well.
As we hurried through the streets, Hanno told us that Richard had been hooded and bound, then moved from the tower at dawn and unceremoniously locked in an earth-walled root cellar under a grand house near the southern wall of Ochsenfurt. The house was empty and the only guards, four of them, were under the command of this Peter, evidently a habitual drunk, who was now shambling along beside us, alternately grinning and tugging his greasy forelock at the abbots.
It took but a few moments to reach the house, and while the oafish gaoler fumbled with a key, I congratulated Hanno on his resourcefulness, handing him the purse from my belt with which to reward Peter. ‘Ach, it is nothing,’ said Hanno modestly. He seemed to have thrown off the effects of the ale almost entirely. ‘This is a very small town, everybody knows everybody’s business here. I grow up in a small town just like this one. You can never keep a secret in these little places…’
‘You did it perfectly,’ I said, knowing that it would please him. He grinned and nodded happily.
The gaoler threw open the door and bowed low, ushering us into the dank, earthy space. While Hanno remained outside to keep watch, the two abbots and I ducked our heads and made our way cautiously into the dim cellar. I had my hand on my sword, unsure what to expect, and when something moved with a clink in the far corner, I half-drew my weapon.
There was barely enough light to see, but as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness I could make out the form of a man, a tall man, lying in the corner. He was chained by the ankle to an iron stake driven deep into the floor; his face was hidden by a bag made from a dark cloth of some kind and his arms were tightly bound by the elbows behind him. Suddenly I was extremely angry. This man was a king, and a hero of a righteous war against the enemies of Christ, not some common felon awaiting a shameful execution. I cut through his bonds with my sword and pulled the bag off his head. I could do nothing about his iron fetter.
‘Sire,’ I said gently as King Richard rubbed his arms to bring back the circulation. ‘Sire, we are here. All will be well now that we are here to help you.’
King Richard blinked and stared at me in the dim light of the cellar. ‘Blondel,’ he said, almost whispering my nickname. ‘Blondel — I knew I was not dreaming. It was you singing last night, not some foul trick of my ears or a night demon. I knew it.’
‘Sire…’ Abbot Boxley took a step towards the King. ‘We come here with the full authority of your mother the Queen to negotiate for your release. England stands ready to buy your freedom. And we shall not leave your side until your liberty is accomplished.’
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
