had to live with my own shit.
Gradually, a sense of normality returned and my terrors began to subside.
About a week later, Rudolph the Castellan appeared, looking just as menacing as he had before. He was accompanied by my erstwhile companions, the Abbots Clovis and Charles.
‘You are a fortunate man, Ranulf of Lancaster. The Emperor has summoned the King to his court on the Rhine. You and the two abbots are to accompany him. An escort has been arranged for early tomorrow morning. Be ready at dawn.’
He then turned and left, slamming the door behind him. As the two abbots began to examine me for any ill effects from my confinement, I shot questions at them.
‘Have you seen the King?’
Clovis did most of the talking.
‘Yes, this morning; we were escorted up from the village.’
‘How is he?’
‘Thin, pale and melancholy. He has not been harmed, and he is not being held in a dungeon. But his room is small and the food is barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone a man of his proportions. He sends his greetings.’
‘When can I see him?’
‘In the morning; the Castellan won’t allow us to see him again until we leave.’
‘Where are the things we brought from England?’
‘Either confiscated or destroyed.’
‘Even the letters from Eleanor and Berengere?’
‘Even those.’
‘That Castellan is an evil bastard. How long have I been here?’
‘Thirteen days in the oubliette, and eight days in here. You’re a little thin; but otherwise you seem to be in good condition, given what you’ve been through, and for a man of your age.’
The Abbot’s supplementary point gave me a jolt; I was forty-two years old, and time was moving on. It made me think.
With an escort of two dozen men, we left the godforsaken castle of Trifels just after dawn the next day. It was impossible to speak to the Lionheart, although I did catch a brief glimpse of him; he was confined in a covered cart, which was like a cell on wheels, and we were kept well away from him. One of his wrists was manacled to the cart and he was dressed like a peasant. He could have been a common criminal being taken to the gallows.
Clovis had been right; he was thin and pale, and the appetite for life had gone from his face. I turned to the Abbot.
‘Is he tied all the time?’
‘Only when he’s being moved. Apparently, he escaped three times on the way from Vienna, so they chained him. His right wrist is very raw, but I’ve persuaded them to chain his other hand.’
Our destination was the City of Spires, Speyer on the Rhine, only a few miles north of Trifels, where the Emperor was to hold his Easter Court. It was here that I was eventually allowed to talk to the King.
The Lionheart was given rooms in the royal apartments in Speyer Palace, while the abbots and I were billeted with the Emperor’s garrison. I was taken aback when I saw him.
His once distinctive mane of hair had thinned and was streaked with grey. He looked drawn to the point of frailty, and he had lost a considerable amount of weight. More disconcertingly, the notorious fire that used to burn so brightly in his eyes was no longer there. He was slumped in a chair when I arrived; when I greeted him, he barely lifted his head to acknowledge me.
‘Welcome to my new abode, Ranulf.’
‘A royal apartment, sire, and one fit for a King.’
‘Indeed, a considerable improvement on that hole at Trifels. But I fear I may be sent back there after this little tete-a-tete with Henry.’
‘My Lord, I’m sure the abbots have told you, the ransom is being collected. It will soon be complete, and then you can go home.’
‘This is not about a ransom; it is about vengeance and humiliation. They mean to make me grovel. The price is set so high in order to punish me. It’s not intended to make them rich; they’re rich already.’
‘My Lord, we will get you home, worry not.’
‘Ranulf, I will only be released when they have had their revenge.’
Two days later, on Palm Sunday, Richard, King of England, was brought before Henry VI, Holy Roman Emperor, Lord of the Germans, in the nave of St Mary’s, the huge Cathedral of Speyer.
The Lionheart was dressed neatly and cleanly, but only in the plain mantle and cloak of a lowly knight. He was denied any weapons or regalia, despite the fact that he was the legitimate ruler of a realm at least on a par with Henry’s domain.
In contrast with the Lionheart’s drab brown cloak, the cathedral was a blaze of colour. Its bright red sandstone columns provided a perfect canvas for the gleaming silks and rich furs of the guests. Henry had summoned his aristocratic and ecclesiastical nobility from far and wide. They were so many that they filled the floor of the entire nave in serried ranks of bejewelled necks, ermine-clad shoulders and coroneted heads. The cathedral rang with the cacophony of thousands of voices, in many different languages, their volume rising as they competed with one another to be heard.
Only a few paces from Henry’s imperial dais, a clear space had been left for the King to stand in. As if in a Roman arena, he resembled an exotic animal, captured and put on display for the amusement of the crowd.
The Emperor’s Chamberlain rose and the entire gathering fell silent within moments, leaving just distant echoes reverberating around the walls.
It was soon obvious that this was not an audience with the Emperor; it was a public trial in front of the entire Holy Roman Empire. Indeed, if the Lionheart’s judgement had been accurate, it was to be a public humiliation.
Henry looked imperious, as was his right; the crowd of princes, dukes, lords and their ladies looked contemptuous, as was not their right; the King, the only man on his feet, stood in the centre of the only open space in the vast cathedral, looking forlorn. I wanted to rush to his side, but we were ten yards away and under guard.
The Chamberlain’s voice rose.
‘Richard, King of the English, you are brought here to St Mary’s, the Cathedral of Speyer, in the presence of his Imperial Highness, Henry, Emperor of the Romans, to answer to God for the sins you have committed in His name…’
He paused to look at the Emperor, who nodded, impatient for his Chamberlain to continue.
‘You are required to answer to the following heinous crimes. First: that you betrayed the trust and confidence of Henry’s vassal, Leopold, Duke of Austria, and disgraced him by tearing down his Imperial Standard from the walls of Acre in the Holy Land. Second: that you connived and plotted in the brutal murder of the noble Lord, Conrad of Montferrat, King of Jerusalem. Third: that you dishonoured Christ our Redeemer and the whole of Christendom, by failing in your duty to reclaim the Holy City, and that you did compound this by then treating with the heathen Saladin and granting him sovereignty of God’s Holy Places.
‘The Emperor has asked Henry of Maastricht, Archbishop of Worms, to preside over a conclave of the Bishops of the Empire to pass judgement on these charges. What say you to these charges?’
With a smug expression on his face, the Chamberlain then sat down.
The King, who had kept his head bowed as the indictments were read, was impassive, his chin on his chest, his shoulders stooped. He looked like a broken man, unable to respond.
But then he raised his chin and began to look around. He fixed his eyes on sections of his audience and stared at them intently. If his lonely isolation at Trifels had cowed him, this huge crowd awakened him. I could see anger rise in him; the fire began to glow in his eyes once more. The Emperor had made a mistake by making a public declaration of the King’s so-called ‘crimes’ and had compounded his error by taunting the wounded
