Alys Clare: Girl In A Red Tunic

Briefly Leofgar closed his eyes to receive her blessing. Then, opening them, he said suddenly, ‘Mother, why did you faint when you saw it was me? You said you’re not sick, so was it just the surprise?’

She laughed. ‘Son, I very rarely faint and certainly do not do so when faced with a surprise, even one as extraordinary as seeing my son after so long. No, it wasn’t that.’

‘What was it, then?’

She looked into his wide grey eyes and almost seemed to see in them a reflection of her own. ‘In fact it really was no surprise.’ She made herself give a light laugh, as if to suggest that she did not speak seriously. ‘You see, son, I have been dreaming. When you arrived, I was on my way back here with our priest, with whom I had just had a long and helpful talk during which I described those dreams in some detail.’

She paused, trying to make sense of something illogical. He said, ‘Go on, Mother. Describe them to me, too.’

‘Oh. Yes, very well. I kept seeing the same scene and it has been affecting me so much that during the day I have not been capable of keeping my mind where it belongs, on my work and on my prayers. That’s why I talked it over in such depth with Father Gilbert, because I realised I was wasting God’s time all the while I was closed to his voice.’

With an impatient sigh, Leofgar said, ‘ What did you dream?’

Her eyes on his, she said, ‘I dreamed of you. You were a child again and you were calling me, over and over again. You desperately needed my help and I could not reach you to give it.’

Her words must have affected him for he lowered his head so that she would not see his face. Then, his voice tight with emotion, he said, ‘I do need you. I kept thinking about you and once or twice when — well, when things were really bad, I would call out to you.’ Raising his head again, he whispered, ‘I can’t believe you heard me!’

‘I did,’ she assured him. ‘And I shall do all that is in my power for you and your Rohaise. We will help you, Leofgar. I promise you that.’

Then he was in her arms and at long last she could provide the wordless, loving comfort she had so yearned to give him.

Josse d’Acquin was on his way home. The November day was fine — bright sunshine sparkled off the frost and the ground was dry and good for riding — and Horace, his horse, who was fresh and well rested, felt eager and full of energy. But Josse was depressed, exhausted and too low in spirit to appreciate the beauty of England in the late autumn.

He had spent the past few weeks in the East Anglian port of Orford, having received a peremptory summons to hasten there with all speed on a mission of vital importance. The messenger had enjoyed being mysterious — when Josse had pressed him for details, he had smugly laid a grubby forefinger to the side of his large nose and shaken his head, murmuring just loud enough for Josse to hear that he was sworn to secrecy and would not break his oath if his very life depended on it — but in fact there was little need for the drama because Josse knew full well why they had sent for him.

How, indeed, could the matter be secret, when it concerned the entire population of England?

King Richard was a prisoner of the Holy Roman Emperor, Henri VI, and he would be held captive until his loyal subjects stumped up a ransom of 150,000 marks, not to mention the two hundred hostages who would have to give up their freedom in return for that of the King. The King’s elderly but vital mother, Queen Eleanor, had thrown herself into organising the collection of the ransom — there had now been three levies and still the money fell woefully short of the required sum — and the people of England had given till they could give no more. The first fine fervour of generosity had quickly faded; many had not felt it at all and those who had and who had unquestioningly given as much as they could were now beginning to regret it. The whole business was fraught with difficulties: the quick-witted, the crafty and the downright dishonest had evaded the earlier levies, and some of the collectors had proved less than trustworthy and had run off with what they collected. It was rumoured that King Richard was beside himself, frustrated to the very edge of sanity and driven to composing mournful self-pitying poems and miserable songs bemoaning his fate.

By October, 100,000 marks had been amassed and locked securely away in huge iron-bound chests stored, under heavy guard, in the crypt of St Paul’s Cathedral. When the Emperor’s envoys arrived in London to check on progress, they were sumptuously entertained and then sent on their way, the money solemnly handed over into their charge. Richard, with freedom beckoning, wrote to his mother commanding her to meet the remaining terms of the ransom and bring the rest of the money and the hostages to the Emperor in person; he commanded that Walter of Coutances, the head of the council of regency, accompany her. They were, he ordered, to present the most magnificent spectacle that they could muster; the captive King, after all, had a point to prove and a reputation to repair.

The Emperor had indicated that, provided all the terms of the ransom were met in full, he might be prepared to release his prisoner on 17th January next.

Queen Eleanor, on receipt of her son’s command, had wasted no time in making her preparations. An impressive fleet was assembled in the ports of Orford, Dunwich and Ipswich and, as money, treasures, hostages and the King’s regalia were steadily transported east ready for shipment, she ordered a guard of reliable and steadfast King’s men whose chief duty was to ensure the safety of the various valuables while they remained on England’s soil.

One of those sturdy men was Josse.

The duty had been frustrating, exhausting and fraught with difficulty. The King might be absent but it seemed to those working so desperately on his behalf that his angry, restless spirit watched over them, always hurrying them, always ready with a harsh word and an impatient cuff across the face when there were mistakes and delays. Josse was billeted at Orford Castle, an extraordinary building put up by Richard’s father, King Henry II, who had taken pride in its strange eighteen-sided shape and its three stout buttressing towers. The old king, Josse reflected one bitter morning when the harsh east wind carried horizontal drops of spiteful, freezing sleet, never had to stand outside his precious castle for three hours checking the contents of an apparently endless cart train.

He could have borne the cold, the frustration and the inefficiency; he could even have ameliorated the last two, had he had the heart. But, like everyone else, his enthusiasm had waned. The people of England had to ransom their King and bring him home, aye, no mistake about their duty there. But they didn’t have to like it.

Josse was embarrassed now by the fervour with which he had initially clamoured for King Richard’s release. He seemed to hear his own voice railing at his uncle, crying out against the terrible humiliation of the King of England being walled up in a foul dungeon, and he heard his uncle’s anguished reply: it is not to be borne! But that was then, when the outrage was news and did not as yet have a price upon it. Now, nearly a year later, Richard’s subjects knew just what it was costing them to get him back and were privately wondering if he was worth it. What’s he ever done for us? people muttered, quite openly, as if they didn’t care who heard. Comes a-hurrying over four years ago for his coronation, fills his coffers with England’s wealth then off he goes on crusade, and that was a waste of time and money if ever there was one since the Lionheart didn’t capture the Holy City as he’d promised. Didn’t so much as set foot in it, so they said, but sat on his horse looking down on Jerusalem and crying his eyes out like a child denied a plaything because God hadn’t seen fit to allow him to deliver the city from His enemies.