‘You come to the market to shop now and then,’ said this man.

‘Yes, I do,’ answered the page.

‘And you bring objects which you sell.’

‘’Tis true. I see no harm . . .’

‘Who talks of harm? It may be that you have done much good. Who is your master?’

‘He is a merchant . . .’

The smile again distorted that cruel face.

‘It would be better to tell the truth. It could save us much time and you much pain.’

‘I am answering your questions. What more can I do?’

‘You can tell us the truth.’ One of the men beside him twisted his arm. ‘Come, fellow. The truth.’

‘I tell you that he is a merchant . . .’

‘Silence. His name. They are pretty eyes. I doubt not that they serve you well. Have you ever thought what it would be like to be deprived of them?’

The page began to tremble.

One of the men seized his head and forced him to open his mouth. He took his tongue in his hands and twisted it. The page gasped with pain and the man released it.

‘See, it is still there. Have you thought what it would be like to lose it? Come, foolish fellow. We have strong suspicions who your master is. You have but to confirm it and you keep those pretty eyes, that useful tongue. But, by God and his Heavens, if you refuse us you will most certainly lose them.’

There were tears in the page’s eyes. ‘I will not betray my master.’

‘Oh, so there is something to betray! Whose glove did you wear in your belt? What a fine glove. It was like a king’s glove. Be sensible. Do you want to suffer in vain? We are asking very little of you. The name of your master – his true name which you know and which you are going to tell us. Give us his name. Lead us to his lodgings and you go free unharmed. Refuse us and you will be thrown into prison and dealt with as we have already explained.’

The page fell on his knees. ‘Let me go, master.’

‘Assuredly when you tell us what we want to know. Don’t be a fool. We know already. We merely want you to confirm this. We shall not blame you. You are a servant. You must do as you are bid. Come, think of the hot irons and your precious eyes. Think. You would never be able to speak again. So look while you can and speak while you can – for you might as well be dead when we have done what we will do to you if you refuse to tell us.’

The page broke down. ‘I will tell you. My master is Richard the King of England. I will take you to our lodging. He is trying to reach England and we lost our way . . .’

‘Enough. He is a good and wise fellow after all and deserves to keep his eyes and tongue. Come, show us the way.’

The dwelling was surrounded by soldiers. The news had circulated that Richard Coeur de Lion was in the house.

The captain of the troop strode into the house and was met by the woman who came from her kitchen to discover what the noise was about.

‘King Richard of England is in this dwelling,’ said the captain.

‘I have no king here,’ was the reply. ‘There is no one but a merchant who is a pilgrim.’

‘We want that pilgrim,’ said the captain.

‘He is in the kitchen watching the chickens on the spits.’

They burst into the kitchen.

‘There he is,’ cried the captain.

Richard stood up to his full height. ‘What means this?’ he demanded.

‘We know you to be the King of England,’ said the captain. ‘We have orders to take you.’

‘Whose orders?’

‘From a high place, Sire.’

‘From your Duke no less. From Leopold. Go and tell Leopold that I will give my sword to no one less than himself.’

The captain was undecided what to do but at length he kept his guard on the house and sent a messenger to the Duke to tell him what had happened.

Later that day Leopold arrived.

They faced each other in the kitchen. Leopold was smiling smugly. ‘It is a little different now from when we were on the walls of Acre,’ he said.

‘Is it?’ retorted Richard. ‘You were arrogant then and at no good business and so you are now.’

‘You are mistaken. This is very good business. You are my prisoner and there are many who will rejoice to hear it.’

‘Weak men such as yourself who are afraid of me?’

‘I am not afraid of you now, Richard of England.’

Richard laughed aloud. ‘You are backed by your soldiers and I stand alone. That makes a very brave man of you.’

‘You are under arrest.’

Richard bowed his head. ‘Allow me to present my sword to you. I do not keep it in the kitchen.’

He went to the room he had shared with the page and taking his sword handed it to Leopold.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘you may tell your masters that you have captured the King of England.’

High on a hill, dominating the landscape, built as a mighty fortress against any invaders, its dungeons so strong that no man had ever escaped from them, the castle of Durenstein was the ideal prison for the most important prisoner in the world. Built on the banks of the Danube where that river cuts through rocky gorges with the few houses which comprised the little town of Durenstein clustered at its feet, it was remote and isolated, for few travellers came that way; and here in this fortress, Richard was placed in the custody of one of Leopold’s most trusted officers, Hadamar von Kuenring.

The importance of his charge had been impressed on von Kuenring and he was determined to hold him against no matter what odds.

The two men quickly became friendly in spite of the fact that one was jailer, one prisoner. Richard liked to talk of battles he had won and von Kuenring listened eagerly; they played chess together and each looked forward to enjoying the company of the other. Through Kuenring Richard learned a little of what was happening outside. There was excitement throughout Europe, Kuenring told him, because it was being whispered that Coeur de Lion was the prisoner of his enemies.

‘If they know where I am, I shall soon be rescued,’ cried Richard.

‘They do not know. The Duke is determined that your prison shall be kept a secret. I will tell you something. Leopold has sent word to the Emperor that you are his prisoner.’

‘He would not dare to do otherwise,’ commented Richard and added ruefully, ‘Much good will that do me. The Emperor is no friend of mine since I became the ally of Tancred.’

‘My lord, you made many enemies.’

‘For a man such as I am that is inevitable,’ said Richard sadly. ‘Even those who I thought were my friends turn against me. But never fear. It will not always be so. Think not that I shall spend my life in this prison.’

Von Kuenring looked wistful. He wished it were in his power to help his prisoner escape.

Richard understood his feelings and gripped his hands saying: ‘You have your duty. Think not I would wish you to forget that.’

He was fortunate to have such a jailer.

When Philip of France heard the news he was filled with an excitement he could not fully understand. They could never be friends again. The old days had gone for ever, and Richard was his enemy. His feelings were difficult even for him to understand. How he wished that Richard were his prisoner! He visualised how he would have gone to him and treated him with tender respect as he had when they were younger. But now a fierce exultation seized him. Richard had been wrong to linger in Palestine. What good had he achieved? How much wiser, he, Philip, had been, to leave when he did.

And now Richard was a prisoner. Let him remain so. It was better for France that he did; and let sly, greedy John take the throne. There was nothing for France to fear from England with a king like John.

It was different with Richard.

And so those who had recently been his allies against the Saracens now gloated on his imprisonment. There in his fortress on the banks of the Danube Richard could look out on the ragged rocks on which it stood. His was a prison from which it would not be easy to escape.