He was in high spirits as he rode into Vienna, feeling like a knight on a confidential mission for his king. He’d never had so much money before and it was easy to pretend he was a wealthy lord. He stopped to flip a coin to a ragged beggar and grinned when the elderly man cried, “Bless you, young sir!”
His first task was to find a moneychanger, for they’d spent most of the coins they’d changed in Görz. Fortunately, Vienna was a crossroads for men traveling to the Holy Land, for Russian traders and Italian merchants, and so there was a need for such services. He found a moneychanger’s stall by St Stephen’s Church, and smiled at the man’s sudden interest at sight of the gold bezants he slid across the table. “I want to change these for pfennigs,” he announced grandly, “and do not try to cheat me, for I am no ignorant foreigner, was born near Hainberg.”
In truth, he had no idea what a bezant was worth, but he watched closely as the man counted out the coins, and tried to look as if he were accustomed to such dealings. He felt an unexpected tug of sentiment as he scooped up the pfennigs, for he’d not seen the small silver coins for several years, and they reminded him of the life that had once been his, back when he’d never imagined he’d see so much of the world or serve a king.
He went next to the apothecary’s shop, where the apothecary noted his scruffy appearance and said curtly that aqua vitae was too costly for a lad like him. He changed his tune when Arne jingled his bulging money pouch, and after putting the aqua vitae phial in a sack, he brought out cinquefoil and wood sorrel, saying they were also very good for fevers. Unable to decide between them, Arne bought both.
It was not a market day, but he had no trouble finding a peddler’s cart. Arne bought the peddler’s best blankets, candles, and the lone pillow, pleased to find one for the king. He then bought soap and a wooden comb, thinking they’d want to tidy themselves up once they reached Moravia, a brass mirror and a pig’s-bladder ball as farewell gifts for the alewife and her sons, a set of bone dice for Morgan and Guillain, a jar of honey for Richard, and some candied quince for himself.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun, for never had he been able to spend without counting the cost. He got eggs from another peddler, two round loaves of bread from a baker, and then his eye was caught by a cook-shop sign across the street from the Judenstadt, where the town’s Jews dwelled. Here, as at the apothecary’s shop, he was eyed askance until he showed he had money, and then they were happy to sell him fish tarts, hot peas, and wafers drizzled with honey. Looking around the shop for delicacies to tempt the king’s poor appetite, he remembered a tale Warin had told him about a wondrous creature called a barnacle goose; because it was hatched in the sea, men said it could be eaten on fast days when meat was forbidden.
“What a pity you do not have a barnacle goose,” he said regretfully, eager to impress the cook-shop hirelings with the story of this legendary fowl. To his surprise, they were familiar with it, and told him that whilst they had no barnacle geese on hand, they did have a roasted beaver’s tail for sale; since it was covered with scales like a fish, it could be eaten during Advent with a clear conscience.
Arne bought it at once, not even flinching at the price, delighted to be able to bring meat back to the king. As he emerged from the cook-shop, burdened with all his purchases, he was going to retrieve his horse when he remembered he’d not said a prayer for Richard yet. He paused, looking around for the nearest church. It was then that a hand clamped down upon his shoulder, spinning him around, and a gruff voice demanded, “Not so fast, boy. We have some questions for you.”
RICHARD AWOKE WITH A start, torn from sleep so abruptly that he felt disoriented. For a disquieting moment, he did not know where he was, for this deeply shadowed chamber did not seem familiar. But then Morgan came into his line of vision, holding a candle aloft, and he remembered. He’d slept for hours, gotten up in the night to pass water, finding it so cold that he thought his piss might freeze, and then rolled into his blanket again and sank back into sleep as soon as he’d closed his eyes. Sitting up, he winced, for every muscle in his body was aching. “Is it morning yet?”
“Actually, the day is well-nigh gone,” Morgan said. “It is about two hours till sunset.”
“Jesu, Morgan, why did you not awaken me? We lost an entire day!”
“We needed to rest, sire,” Guillain said, quietly but firmly. “And so did the horses.”
Richard had to acknowledge the common sense of that, for he knew he’d just about reached the end of his endurance. Morgan was putting down a plate, saying the alewife had brought them cheese, bread, and ale to break their fast, and they’d sent Arne into the town to buy food and blankets.
Richard sipped the ale but did not touch the food. His face was flushed, and they could see sweat stains on his tunic, perspiration beading his forehead. Picking up a second cup, Morgan handed it to the other man. “Drink this, sire,” he urged. “It is barley water, which is said to be good for fevers.”
Richard started to deny his fever, then realized that was pointless. Reaching for the cup, he drank the barley water, grimacing at the taste. He forced himself then to swallow some of the bread and cheese, feeling their eyes upon him. “You say Arne went into the town? Is that safe for him?”
“They’re looking for knights, grown men, foreigners, not boys whose native tongue is German,” Guillain said. “Why would anyone pay heed to him?”
Richard was silent, thinking of all the men they’d lost so far. “I’d give a lot,” he said at last, “to know what happened back in Friesach.”
“I can tell you that,” Morgan said, so confidently that Richard paused with the bread halfway to his mouth. “They spent money like drunken sailors and mayhap even started a brawl if Baldwin thought it necessary to attract attention. When this Lord Friedrich arrived to interrogate them, they denied that the English king was amongst them and were highly indignant that men who’d taken the cross should be harassed or threatened. My guess is that Friedrich then put them under arrest. He must be in dread of Heinrich’s disfavor if he raced all the way from Salzburg to chase down a rumor. But they will not be harmed, sire. They are under the Church’s shield, and whilst some of Heinrich’s lords might be willing to seize you in defiance of that protection, I very much doubt that they will risk excommunication for anyone else.”
“I hope you are right, Cousin.” Setting the bread down, Richard lay back on the blanket, covered himself with his mantle, and his even breathing soon told them that he slept again.
Morgan took out their map and, after positioning the candle, he began to study the route they would take into Moravia. Fifty miles, not far at all. Then Bavaria and Saxony and sailing for England from a North Sea port. Lying down on his own blanket, he wondered where Joanna and Mariam were on this December day. Probably in Rome by now. Mariam would not be pleased when she learned that he’d refused to stay with the others in Friesach, for she had no liking for the English king and would not want him to put his life in peril for Richard. But he’d rather deal with her resentment than face Joanna and tell her he’d abandoned her brother in the lion’s den. He was very fond of his beautiful cousin, but she had a hellcat’s temper. All the Angevins did, he thought with a drowsy smile. He was half asleep when the door burst open and Arne stumbled into the room.
Guillain gestured toward Richard, warning Arne not to speak too loudly. “He needs his sleep. What happened, lad? By the looks of you, nothing good.”
His composure was both comforting and calming. Arne took several deep, bracing breaths, waiting until he could speak clearly and coherently. “I was stopped and questioned by men in the town. The moneychanger told them about my gold bezants. I was about to leave when they grabbed me. I was so scared . . .” he confessed, unable to repress a shudder.
Morgan handed him Richard’s unfinished ale. “Drink it down, Arne, then tell us what happened. Were they the duke’s men? How did you get away?”
Arne gulped the ale in several swal
lows. “No, I think they were the moneychanger’s friends, for they interrogated me there in the street, not at the castle. They were satisfied with the answers I gave and let me go. I told them I had the bezants because my master was coming back from the Holy Land. I explained he had not returned with Duke Leopold and the other Austrians because he’d been very ill at Acre, but he recovered and fought under the Duke of Burgundy’s command until the peace was made.”
“So you gave them the name of the knight you’d accompanied to Acre. That was quick thinking, Arne.”
Arne was too unnerved to appreciate the praise. “It was all I could think to say. My master had been a household knight of Sir Hadmar von Kuenring and I mentioned his name, too. What I said was true . . . except that my master did not survive, but I thought no one would know that. I told them he had stopped at Holy Cross Abbey in Heiligenkreuz to rest because he was ailing and sent me on ahead to buy supplies. And they believed me. The Almighty truly guided my tongue,” he whispered, and shivered again. “But this is a dangerous place, Sir Morgan. Too many men are looking for the king, greedy for the reward they think they’d get from the duke. We need to leave here straightaway.”
Morgan and Guillain looked at each other and then over at Richard’s motionless form. “We cannot do that, Arne, not yet,” Guillain said, keeping his voice low. “The king is still too ill to ride. He needs to rest for another day or two.”
Morgan nodded in agreement. “As long as we take care, we ought to be safe enough here. Did you get the aqua vitae, lad? And the food?”
Arne pointed toward the sacks he’d dropped by the door. “Wait till you see all I bought! I’ve blankets and a pillow for the king and the aqua vitae and herbal potions and lots of food. . . .” He frowned suddenly, rooting about in the sacks. “It is gone! The beaver tail I bought for the king! Those wretches must have taken it whilst they were questioning me. . . .”
They had no idea what he was talking about, but it sounded so ludicrous that they both laughed. When Richard awoke hours later and was told the story of the stolen beaver tail, he laughed, too, and Arne considered the loss well worth it, then, for this was the first time they’d heard Richard laugh in days, not since he’d had to leave the rest of his men behind in Friesach.
THE NEXT DAY IT snowed and the men hunkered down in the widow’s house. Richard passed the hours sleeping, Guillain and Morgan napping and playing hazard with their new dice, Arne doing chores for Els and telling her sons about the strange beasts called camels that he’d seen in the Holy Land. The next morning dawned cold but clear and Richard seemed better, too, so it was decided they would depart on the following day.
Els had told Arne this was the saint’s day of Thomas the Apostle, just four days from Christmas, and he thought it would be a memorable one, for by then they’d have reached safety in Moravia. He was nervous about making another trip into Vienna, but they needed food. Richard was still sleeping, Guillain had gone to the smithy to groom their horses, and Morgan had offered to cut firewood for Els, so there was no one to see Arne off. Taking care not to awaken the king, he fastened his mantle and then looked around for Guillain’s woolen cap; the knight had said he could borrow it for the ride into town. In his search through their meager belongings, he came across Richard’s gloves and pulled them out to admire them. Gloves were still a novelty, worn only by churchmen or the nobility; this pair was made of fine calfskin, lined with vair fur, embroidered with gold thread. Arne couldn’t resist trying them on and they felt so good that he was reluctant to take them off, for the air outside was so frigid that the village seemed encased in ice and men’s breaths trailed after them like white smoke. He jammed Guillain’s cap down upon his head—it was too big, but at least it covered his ears—and then checked to make sure Richard’s sleep was restful; they were fearful that his quartan fever might come back, and each day without the telltale chills was a great relief to them all.
THE WIND WAS CUTTING and Arne urged his mount on, covering the few miles between Ertpurch and Vienna at a brisk pace. He was pleased to see that it was a market day, for that should make it easier to buy what he needed. He remembered just in time to remove Richard’s costly gloves, tucking them into his belt, and took care to avoid the moneychanger’s stall. He gave a coin to the ragged beggar again, getting a blessing in return, then headed for the cook-shop, where he bought more fish tarts and wafers. After that, he browsed the marketplace, looking for food they could pack into their saddlebags. He settled on loaves of bread, hard cheese, almonds, and strips of unappetizing salted herring, not bothering to haggle with the vendors, for he wanted to leave Vienna as soon as he could.
But then he saw the girl. She was admiring a peddler’s merchandise, her blue eyes caressing his finely woven cloths, delicate lace, and bright ribbons, and Arne thought she was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen, her cheeks scarlet with cold, the tips of her blond braids peeking provocatively from beneath her veil. As if feeling his gaze, she glanced up and for a moment their eyes met; then she looked modestly away, but he was sure the corners of her mouth were curving in a smile. He sauntered over and casually began to examine the peddler’s wares. Reaching for a ribbon, he held it up for her appraisal, murmuring, “This is the very color of your eyes.”
“You think so?” She gave him a sideways glance, and this time he definitely saw a smile.
The peddler was in no mood to indulge their flirtation, though, sure that they hadn’t a pfennig between them. Snatching the ribbon back from Arne, he growled, “Do not put your greasy fingers on the goods! As for you, Margrethe, you’d best be on your way ere I tell your father you were making calf eyes at this bedraggled knave.”
Arne flushed darkly and glared at the man. “If this is how you treat your customers, no wonder you are doing so poorly!”
“Customers are people who buy things, boy,” the peddler said with a sneer.
“Well, that is what I am doing,” Arne snapped, grabbing the ribbon and several items at random. “I’ll take these.” The peddler named a price so high that several of the bystanders nudged one another and snickered, but Arne was too angry to calculate the true worth of the ribbons and lace. Pulling out his money pouch, he flung a handful of pfennigs at the other man, who looked so flustered that their growing audience laughed and applauded Arne. Only then did he realize that they’d drawn a crowd.
“This is for you,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, offering the ribbons and the square of lace to Margrethe. “Please accept it as an apology for involving you in this unseemly row.”
She blushed, but reached out to take the gift as some of the bystanders applauded again. It was clear to Arne that the peddler was not a popular figure in Vienna. It was also clear to him that he’d attracted attention he could ill afford. Making the girl what he hoped was a courtly bow, he turned and began to push through the crowd. He was still flushed, but now it was embarrassment and not indignation that colored his cheeks. Thank God Almighty the king and the others need never know about this foolishness.
He’d gone only a few paces, though, before several men stepped in front of him, barring the way. “We do not often see a stripling who looks like a beggar but spends like a lord,” one said. “How did you come by so much money, lad?”
Arne took a backward step, but people were thronging around him and there was no room to retreat. “I am no thief, if that is what you think,” he said, as steadily as he could. “My master sent me into town to buy goods for him. The money is his, not mine.”
“I doubt that your master told you to buy ribbons for pretty wenches. He ought to be told that his servant is so high-handed with his money.”
Arne had won the crowd’s favor by standing up to the peddler, and a few of them now came to his defense, telling the men to “let the lad be.” Arne’s interrogator scowled, but his companions seemed to be losing interest, one of them saying, “Get his master’s name, Jorg, and let him go. It’s colder than a witch’s teat and if we stay out he
re much longer, I’m going to freeze the body part I’d least like to lose.”
Some of the bystanders laughed and Arne began to breathe again. Jorg was still frowning, though, and reached for his arm. “Come over here, boy, and tell me more about your master.” His grip was painful, hard enough to leave a bruise, and Arne instinctively recoiled. As he did, his mantle was caught by a gust of wind, revealing the gloves tucked into his belt. Most of their audience did not notice. Jorg did, seeing enough to spark his curiosity, and he yanked Arne’s mantle back.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Grabbing the gloves, he held them up so his companions could see the soft leather and fur lining, and that changed everything. Arne’s throat constricted, cutting off speech. Surrounded by these predatory, cold-eyed men, he began to tremble, a lamb cornered by wolves.
THIS TIME ARNE HAD fallen into the hands of the duke’s men, for they took him straight to the castle and up into a chamber over the gatehouse. Shoving him down in a chair, they deliberately let the suspense build before Jorg said abruptly, “Are you ready to tell us about these gloves, boy?”
Arne had realized at once that he could not use his earlier cover story, for no knight or minor lord would have gloves like these. Nor could he claim he’d found them, for if he was suspected of theft, he’d be hanged. All he could think to do was to fall back upon Richard’s original disguise, and he told them haltingly that he served a rich merchant and the gloves were his. “My master was taken sick and stopped at Holy Cross Abbey, sending me on ahead to Vienna to buy supplies for him. He . . . he is a kind man and let me borrow his gloves because it was so cold. . . .”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Jorg backhanded him across the face. His head whipped back, blood streaming from his nose as the knight reached out and grasped the neck of his tunic, shaking him roughly. “Do not lie to me, whelp. These are no merchant’s gloves. They were made for a bishop . . . or a king.”