‘You yourself with your usual generosity have conveyed it, Sire.’
‘I hope Blondel reached England safely. He is a good boy and a fine minstrel.’
‘I doubt your brother will appreciate that.’
‘Let us hope so, William. Send for the page. Let him sing for us. You and I will go to the chess board and get a game while daylight lasts.’
The news was spreading through Europe. Richard a prisoner and none knew where. But there was a firm belief that he was in the hands of Leopold of Austria and that meant that Henry of Germany would have jurisdiction over him.
John was gleeful. The news couldn’t have been better. He chuckled over it with Hugh Nunant. Philip of France was sending secret messages to him. Nothing could have suited them better. Philip was amused. He remembered the altercation between Richard and Leopold on the walls of Acre. Was Richard regretting his hasty action now? No, the answer must be. Richard would remain aloof and dignified implying that he would do it again even if he had pre-knowledge that later he would be the Duke’s prisoner. There was something fine about Richard. Would to God, thought Philip, that he were my prisoner.
And here he was trying to form an alliance with John. It was all for the good of France. He sent a message to the Prince. ‘If Richard is in the hands of Henry of Germany, a fact on which all rumour seems to agree, it is our good fortune. The longer he remains there the better.’
They should offer Henry money to keep him a prisoner until the end of the year 1194. He, Philip, would be prepared to pay fifty thousand marks of silver to Henry of Germany if he would hold Richard until that time and keep his place of captivity a secret. Philip thought John should offer the Emperor another thirty thousand. ‘Of course,’ added the King of France, ‘it might be wiser to pay the Emperor month by month, for if we paid a large sum in advance and Richard escaped the money would be wasted. One thousand pounds of silver say for every month the Emperor held Richard.’ They might add that they would jointly be prepared to pay the large sum of one hundred and fifty marks of silver if the Emperor would give the prisoner into their care.
Philip’s eyes shone at the idea. He could picture Richard’s riding in the centre of his guards, coming to him, to be his loving hostage as he had been once before.
John was excited by all this intrigue and he believed it could not be long before he was on the throne of England.
Queen Eleanor was deeply distressed. She who had never been pious now spent long hours on her knees reproving herself, asking God if he were punishing her son for her past misdeeds.
‘What can I do?’ she demanded of the Archbishop of Rouen. ‘My son’s dominions here and in Normandy are threatened on all sides. I must go and search for him, but if I do what will happen here and in Normandy? You know how he suffered from his fevers. I greatly fear he may not survive the life of a prisoner.’
The Archbishop soothed her by recalling Richard’s fine physique. ‘There is no man to compare with him,’ he insisted. ‘He has the strength of twenty men.’
‘If I but knew where he was ...’
‘What should we do then?’
‘Bring him back.’
‘It is certain that they would want a ransom.’
‘Then they must have a ransom.’
‘Who knows what terms they will insist on.’
‘Whatever the terms, they must be accepted. Anything ... anything is preferable to the death of the King.’
Then she began to talk of her sins in the past and to cry out in her wretchedness that she believed she was paying for them now.
The Archbishop sent one of the minstrels to attempt to soothe her with his music. Blondel de Nesle crept silently in and seating himself in a corner started to play.
She listened, charmed by music as she ever was.
‘It was beautiful,’ she said. ‘Who composed it?’
‘My lord the King and I together,’ answered Blondel.
‘You harmonised well I believe.’
‘He said so,’ replied Blondel. ‘There is another song we made together. We have never sung it except when we were alone. He said that was how he wished it. It was our song.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘I grieve for him, Blondel. How I grieve for him.’
‘Can nothing be done, my lady?’
‘We do not know where he is. His captors will not tell us. Until we know how can we do anything to save him?’
‘It is said he is in Austria.’
‘It is said so. Would we could prove it. His Queen Berengaria saw a jewelled belt for sale in Rome and she knew it for his.’
‘How could it have been in Rome, my lady?’
‘He might have given it to someone who travelled there.’
‘Surely that person would have treasured a gift from the King?’
‘It could have been stolen from him. Oh, Blondel, my child, we cannot know what has become of him. I am filled with foreboding.’
‘If someone could but find him, my lady ...’
‘I would go and seek him ... were it not for the state of the Kingdom.’
‘His captors would be aware of you, my lady. It would seem to me that one should go who would not be recognised.’
‘You are a wise boy, I see. Come, play to me. Play Richard’s song.’
And as he strummed Blondel thought of the King and his many kindnesses towards his minstrel; and he yearned to see his face again.
The next day when the Queen asked that Blondel come to her to soothe her with his music, Blondel could not be found.
It had been a long journey to Austria. Blondel had sung his way across the continent. He had stood in the market places of many towns and so sweet was his voice that people had paused to listen and drop a coin into his hat. He was so handsome that many took pity on him. Often some mother would be reminded of her son and bring him in to her cottage and make him cut wood or perform some such service for his supper and a place to sleep under her roof.
He asked questions about the castles and those who lived in them and whether it was possible that if he called and asked to sing for them he would be allowed to do so.
He invariably was. A minstrel was always welcome, especially one with as fine a voice as Blondel’s.
Arriving at a castle he would humbly ask that he might rest a while and play his lute for the company. He would be taken to the great hall and there would invariably be many who were eager to hear the songs of a wandering minstrel.
He would make a point of being friendly with those of the kitchen. They would give him titbits to eat and smile at what they thought was his cunning. Cunning it was, but his motives were not what they thought.
‘The youth has not seen a good meal for many a long day, I’ll trow,’ said the cooks. ‘’Tis small wonder he wants to fill up while he be here.’
But it was gossip he wanted. He would sit by the great fires turning the spits and singing as he did so. In the kitchen they would know perhaps if there was a stranger in the castle whose presence was not generally known. Such a stranger would have to eat and the cooks must be aware of it. There would be a certain ceremony about a king’s meals surely.
He asked searching questions and every time it seemed he came away disappointed.
There must be a castle somewhere which was an impregnable fortress. Perhaps on a hill, its thick grey walls a challenge to any invader, it would be formidable. A fortress, thought Blondel, and a prison.
When he came to Dürenstein he went into the square to talk to the traders and sing for his supper and a bed.