The Heart of the Lion

Chapter XVII BLONDEL’S SONG

The frustration which had overwhelmed Richard when he was first brought to the Castle of Dürenstein had given way to resignation. He had endured hardship during his campaigns and had never complained on that score, so that now he found himself a prisoner in an alien land, he could shrug aside any physical inconveniences.

That it should have been Leopold into whose hands he had fallen was indeed galling and that Leopold’s overlord should be the Emperor Henry VI of Germany was a further ironic twist. During the first weeks of his captivity he had asked himself what could possibly happen next; and now it seemed that fate might decide to allow his brother John to succeed in making himself King.

But his resilience had never failed him yet. There was that in him which could overawe those about him. Even when he had faced Leopold and been obliged to hand over his sword the Duke of Austria had quailed before him. He might be a prisoner but he was still Coeur de Lion, the greatest and most renowned soldier in the world. No one could forget that and when they stood before him and he drew himself to his full height and gave them his cold stare their stature seemed to decrease and they trembled. It was amusing. He had no fear of them. That was the secret. That was his great quality. Whatever the situation, Richard was the one who struck fear into his opponent not they into him whatever their advantage.

He had seen that when the Duke of Austria brought him here he was uncertain what should be done with him, and had immediately despatched messengers to his Emperor for instructions because he feared the responsibility of holding King Richard. Poor Leopold, he had always been a braggart and braggarts were notoriously men of straw, crowing like cockerels in a farmyard to call attention to their strength lest it should be suspected that they had none.

So Richard had passed his first weeks in Dürenstein speculating on the possibility of escape. It might seem remote and it was clearly because his captors feared they could not hold him that they had chosen such a spot as Dürenstein. It seemed impregnable with iron bars set across the narrow window which was cut out of the thick stone wall. The natural rock formed part of the castle wall on one side and below were the craggy rocks and the River Danube. Escape that way seemed out of the question. There might be other ways. His custodian Hadamar von Kuenring feared it, and he was a very anxious man. But during his first days in the castle von Kuenring had come to him being most anxious to impress on him that he was well aware that the King was a very special prisoner and he had no desire to show disrespect; indeed he was eager to do everything possible – providing he did not go against the wishes of his master Leopold – to make Richard’s stay at Dürenstein comfortable.

‘Such a situation as that in which I find myself could scarcely be expected to bring me comfort,’ said Richard. ‘If you can do that you are possessed of supernatural powers.’

Richard smiled wryly as he spoke but there was little humour in this officer of Leopold’s guard. He went on: ‘Your page who betrayed you is here in the castle. I will send him to you that he may serve you. We hold another of your men, William de l’Estang, and I shall put nothing in the way of your enjoying the companionship of your friend.’

This was indeed good news. William de l’Estang was a man Richard had always liked and his company would be very welcome.

His young page was brought to his cell and fell on his knees before the King who raised him up and embraced him.

‘My lord, Sire,’ cried the boy and began to weep.

Richard stroked his hair. ‘I understand, little one. The cruel men threatened you.’

‘To tear out my tongue and to put out my eyes.’

‘And would have done it too, God curse them. All is well. Have no fear now.’

‘But, my lord, I led them to you.’

‘Nay, they would have found me. Dry your tears. Serve me well and it shall be as it ever was.’

The boy fell once more on to his knees and kissed Richard’s feet.

It was pleasant to have him.

The days began to pass. Richard was allowed to walk out on to the ramparts as long as he was surrounded by guards. William de l’Estang came and spent the hours of daylight with him; they played chess together and sometimes von Kuenring would play against one of them while the other looked on. Von Kuenring gave Richard a lute and while they played chess the page would play softly. Richard himself often played it and the three of them would sing together.

Richard’s voice which was powerful could often be heard in the castle and it was marvelled that one who was a captive could so forget his woes in such songs, many of which were gay.

In fact they marvelled at Richard who did not seem to resent his captors. He liked to test his physical strength with his guards in the courtyard where he would wrestle with them much to the amusement of the onlookers. He selected the tallest and strongest looking men for his opponents and the rest of the guards would watch in amazement, for invariably Richard proved himself the stronger.

Then he would go to his cell and play chess or sing. He was composing a sirvente of seven stanzas which he said would tell the world – if it ever heard it – how he felt about his prison.

Sometimes he would talk to William de l’Estang of escape. Was it possible? Could they scale those rocky walls? The guards were ever watchful. Every night special men came to his cell. They were the biggest and most powerful soldiers in the Duke’s army, and that was why they had been chosen to guard Richard. They placed themselves about his bed and through the night sat there, their great swords at their sides.

‘If we were to escape,’ said de l’Estang, ‘where should we go? We should be discovered in a short time and put in an even stronger fortress.’

Richard agreed.

‘If we could but get a message to my mother ...’

‘But how? We are watched day and night.’

‘I know not,’ said Richard. ‘But help must come from somewhere.’

When he was most desperate he turned to his music. It comforted him more than anything.

He sang the first verses of his sirvente to William. Poignantly it expressed the plaintive lament of the prisoner.

‘It is a little like a song I composed with Blondel de Nesle some time ago. Do you remember Blondel, William?’

‘I do, Sire. A handsome boy and devoted to you.’

‘He wished to come with me. If I had allowed him to he might well be here with me now. I wondered whether he would have lost his eyes or his tongue for my sake. I would not have had it so. Our poor little page lives in perpetual remorse. Comfort him, William. Make sure he knows that I understand.’

‘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.

There was one woman who had brought her eggs to market and because he thought she had a kindly face – his adventure had made him quick to assess character at a glance – he took his stand near her and sang for her. Tears filled her eyes and she begged for more and as he sang she thought how young he was.

She beckoned him to come nearer and this he did singing and attracting customers with his songs and helping her to sell her produce.

‘You are travelling alone?’ she asked.

He told her that he was.

‘And you sing for your living. Where will you sleep tonight?’

‘In the forest, beneath a hedge ... I will find somewhere to sleep.’

‘My son has recently married a wife. He no longer lives with me. You may have his bed if you will sing again for me and mayhap come to market with me one other fine day.’

It seemed that she was suggesting he stay for a while and he answered that he was a wanderer, but he would gladly accept her offer for the night and would be willing to do any work for her providing it was not beyond his powers.

He went home with the woman and as they sat at table he asked her who lived at the grand castle on the hill and what was the name of it.

‘It is Dürenstein,’ she told him. ‘It belongs to our Duke Leopold.’

Blondel remembered him at Acre and wondered how he would have behaved if by some chance he was Richard’s jailer.

‘A very important officer is now the custodian. They say he is of high rank. He came to the castle some time ago. We see him riding in the town now and them.’

‘I shall ask if I may sing for them. Do you think I may?’

‘I know not. You can but try. And if they will have none of you, you may rest here for a while.’

Blondel thanked her. He did not go to the castle the next morning but waited until later in the afternoon. That was the time when men and women were more mellow. They had generally eaten well and often dozed at such an hour. It was then and at night that music sounded sweeter.

He presented himself at the castle gate.

‘I am a wandering minstrel,’ he told the serving men. ‘I would I might sing in the great hall tonight.’

The men exchanged glances.

‘Do you think ... ?’

One shook his head. ‘Our master would not care for minstrels.’

‘Who is your master, kind sir?’

‘He is Hadamar von Kuenring and very important. The Duke himself comes frequently to the castle since ...’

‘Since when?’ asked Blondel.

‘Since it has been in our master’s hands.’

‘What think you?’ asked one of the men. ‘Wouldn’t you come into the kitchens and sing for us?’

He would indeed, with the greatest pleasure. He chose gentle songs, songs of love to bring tears to the eyes of the women.

They gave him cold venison and half a loaf with ale to wash it down.

‘I sing better when my throat has been moistened,’ declared Blondel.

He sang some more and then he asked if he might stroll round the castle, for he had thought it quite the most impressive castle he had ever seen.

One of the serving men said he would take him round. He had quite clearly taken a great fancy to Blondel, and as they went Blondel sang.

All the time he was alert; he looked for windows – narrow slips with bars of iron across, the window of a prison. There high in the castle was one of them. A great feeling of excitement possessed him; he broke into song suddenly; he let his voice soar up throwing it with all his might towards that barred window; and then his heart seemed to stop beating, for someone was singing up there, singing in answer to Blondel’s song. Blondel continued to sing and the voice answered him.

‘I have never heard that song before,’ said the serving man.

‘Someone in the castle has. Who was that singing with me?’

‘I know not,’ said the man. ‘I have heard the voice but I know not whence it comes.’

‘Come,’ said Blondel, ‘let us return to the castle hall. Think you your master and mistress will allow me to sing to them tonight?’

‘I know not, but it will please us of the kitchens if you do.’

What did it matter? thought Blondel. His one thought was to get back to England.

He had discovered Richard’s whereabouts, for that was Richard’s voice he had heard and the song they had sung was that one which they had composed together and which Richard had decreed should be sung by no one but themselves.