A King's Ransom by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

search, too, if only to be sure I was not mistaken. I think your greatest danger at the moment is that talkative innkeeper belowstairs. He was bedazzled by your free spending and if he hears the rumors, he’ll be off to the castle in the blink of an eye.”
    Several of the knights had begun to bristle at the implied criticism, and Richard raised a hand to silence them. “We needed the privacy, for it was the only way we could talk amongst ourselves.”
    Roger nodded, for the grim truth was that no matter what they did, they put themselves at risk. “I looked your horses over, and they . . . Well, how can I put it?” With another faint smile. “Let’s just say I’ve seen better. I want you to take mine, my lord king. I fetched him from the castle ere I came here and he’s below in the inn courtyard, tied to their hitching post, a roan stallion with a black mane and tail. But you must go now. Get as far from Udine as you can, as fast as you can.”
    The men were already pulling on their boots, buckling their scabbards. Richard sent Warin to give the bad news to their sleeping companions in the other chamber, and then turned back toward the Norman knight. “Will the count blame you for our escape?”
    “He’ll be sorely disappointed, but I’ve served him loyally for twenty years and risen high enough in his favor to be given his niece as my wife. As long as he believes mine was an honest mistake, I’ll be safe enough.”
    Richard hoped he was right. Reaching out, he put his hand on the Norman knight’s shoulder. “You are a brave man, Roger d’Argentan. I will not forget you.”
    Roger’s sore throat tightened and he swallowed with an effort. “Go with God, my liege.”

    T HEY HAD TO HURRY, for the town gates would close once curfew rang. They decided to split into two groups in hopes of attracting less attention. Leading the first one, Richard and his companions forced themselves to hold their mounts to a walk when their every instinct was to urge their horses into a brisk gallop. The streets were quiet and few people were out, driven indoors by the cold and the approach of dark. Lights gleamed through the chinks in shutters and the men cast yearning glances toward them as they rode by, for those modest houses held treasures they valued more than gold on this bleak December night—blazing hearths and beds.
    When they saw the north gate ahead, they felt an easing of tension, for Udine would soon be disappearing into the distance. It was then that the door of a tavern burst open and men spilled out into the street. They were loud and rowdy, brandishing wine flasks and lanterns and even a few crude torches. Richard and his knights drew rein, sensing trouble, and sent Arne on ahead to find out what was going on; he was soon back, blue eyes wide with dismay.
    “They are hunting the English king,” he said anxiously, “having heard the rumors that he may be here in Udine. They think Count Meinhard will richly reward the man who finds him, and they plan to search all the inns for strangers.”
    No one spoke, but the same thought was in all their minds: if not for Roger, they’d have been trapped in the Black Lion, for this drunken mob would soon have drawn men from the castle. They glanced around, but they did not know the town and they could easily lose their way in the dark maze of narrow alleys and lanes. It seemed safer to stay on the main street and bluff their way out. They rode on, hands tightening on the reins, moving their mantles for easy access to their scabbards. The crowd was blocking the street. Some started to move aside, though, accustomed to giving way to horsemen. Echoing Arne’s mumbled greeting, the knights muttered a guttural “Guten Abend,” all the while hoping fervently that these wine-soused brains would not wonder why men would be departing the city after night had fallen.
    It was to be a forlorn hope. Some of the men were already staring at them, puzzlement quickly flaring into