There were tears in my eyes by the time the King had finished, as there were in his. I knew that Blondel would sing it beautifully and it would soon be heard in every hall and village in the Lionheart’s Empire.
Later, as the two abbots carried the King’s lyrics with them to England, I wondered whether the noble Lionheart would not only be remembered as a great warrior, but also as one who could charm a hostile audience with the power of his rhetoric and write songs of great charm and poignancy.
The King had been right, his release did not come quickly. Summer blossomed, which at least brought the modest comfort of warm air to temper the frigid stone walls of Trifels, but then its fruits perished with the nip of autumn. I was allowed to visit the King every afternoon, from twelve until the beginning of the Dog Watch, at four. We were also allowed to walk around Trifels’ keep every morning for an hour, the only exercise we were granted. We were closely watched by several guards, who maintained their surly demeanour week after week.
Our food was plain but had improved from our first visit, and the King regained some weight and colour. After much patient tutoring from the King, I did learn to play chess. We carved the pieces ourselves from fallen twigs we found in the bailey and scratched a board into the King’s table. We gave names to all the pieces from the King’s family and entourage; he took particular pride in naming his king William the Conqueror, while I named mine Harold of England. Perhaps that is why I always lost.
Eventually, the game proved to be a source of frustration rather than comfort, because I was never able to offer a serious challenge. If I took my time to try to find the right move, the Lionheart became impatient. And if I moved without sufficient thought, it led to a stupid mistake, which made him even more irritated.
We rarely saw Rudolph the Castellan, who seemed content to stay on the top floor of the keep, getting fatter and fatter. Once a week, a girl – and sometimes more than one – was brought from the local village so that he could indulge himself. These visits made our plight even more unbearable – especially when we could hear his grunting and the girls’ squeals of pleasure, no matter how contrived they might have been. We sometimes played a little game in which we vied to decide whether their yelps were genuine or not. Either way, the thought of the fat Swabian pleasuring the local girls for a couple of pieces of silver was an image that did little for our peace of mind.
Eventually, the King did ask about Berengere and whether she had become pregnant after their time together in Acre. He had hesitated to pose the question, fearing that he already knew the answer.
‘I suppose you would have given me the news when you arrived, had the Queen produced a child?’
‘I would have, of course, sire. Queen Eleanor thought that you should know that the Queen Berengere miscarried the child she had conceived in the Holy Land.’
The Lionheart immediately turned and walked to the window to hide his distress. He leaned his head on its wooden jamb and stared northwards.
‘Will I ever have an heir? It has been too long.’
‘But she’s not barren, my Lord; many women miscarry with their first child.’
I decided not to tell him about the other miscarriages; his mood was dark enough as it was.
‘If we never get out of here, that imbecile of a brother will inherit the throne! I must get back to England.’
‘We will be home soon, sire. The smiths are melting silver every day, and your mother is in charge; you know it will be done. We will be home by Christmas, I’m sure.’
‘You know nothing about it! Don’t patronize me, I’m not a bloody fool. We could rot in here until the end of my days. I would not be the first.’
Flashes of anger like that became more and more frequent as autumn’s onset bit hard. Confinement was the one thing that could tame the lion in him, and he became more and more morose.
He tried to compose new chansons, but without much success, until it became another source of frustration. Eventually, he abandoned them all and just dwelt on his one chanson for Blondel, which he began to call his ‘Song of Despair’. It was a thing of great charm and, although it had always been a lament, he had sung it with a sense of hope. But now he started to sing it with despair in his voice, until it became unbearable to listen to.
Once again, he became the broken man I had found at Trifels.
He began to bellow challenges to the guards and the Castellan, driving himself into incoherent rages. My daily visits offered little comfort. Although they began politely, with the usual pleasantries, they soon descended into tirades during which he would vent his spleen at me.
It became hard to bear, and I began to dread my visits.
The King’s appearance deteriorated. He stopped trimming his beard and washing himself; he began to throw his food around his room and out of his window.
I feared he was losing his mind.
The grim circumstances came to a head in early September 1193. The winds and rain of autumn had brought more misery and there was still no word of the ransom being paid. I was woken in the early hours of a Wednesday morning by the King shouting insults and threats, which he had begun to do at all hours of the day and night.
I did not realize it at the time but the day was significant. It was 8 September, his birthday. He was thirty-six years old and, despite being the ruler of a vast empire and the greatest warrior in Christendom, he was alone and in despair.
It was a still night and his anguished voice rang around the valley of the River Queich like a howl from Hell. The Castellan’s temper must have snapped. Doors banged, the sound of many footsteps reverberated and there was much shouting, until it became frighteningly obvious that the King was being beaten. The assault went on for some time; I heard sickening blow after sickening blow.
I banged on my door and shouted at them to stop. Eventually, I wailed, begging them to cease, but to no avail. After what seemed like an eternity, the dreadful noise from the beating ended. I heard the sound of running footsteps, and doors being slammed shut.
Then it was my turn; but I am sure my pounding did not last as long as the King’s. After a few minutes, I lost consciousness and was spared more pain.
