I, Richard the Lionheart, king of England, find myself at the writing of this diary entry to be in a most unfortunate state of incarceration. Returning from a difficult and disheartening two-year campaign in the Holy Land, several pages and myself donned the guise of pilgrims as we made our way westwards across the continent. As I lay that night in repose at an Austrian inn, I was suddenly awakened by a loud thumping, and before I could gather my wits, I sat up in bed to find myself surrounded by a dozen armed men. Their leader, a pudgy, bearded warthog of a fellow pointed a crooked finger at me and announced, “King Richard, by the authority of Duke Leopold, I place you under arrest!”
“There is a grave mistake,” insisted I. “I am but a humble Knight Templar.”
“Upon my soul!” cried Fat Face. “What ‘humble knight’ wears such a magnificent ruby ring? You are none other than King Richard, and a liar, to boot."
Never has anyone addressed me in such an impertinent manner, and I at once seized him by the throat and lifted him up so that his boots dangled an inch from the floor boards. The look of rash impudence in his eyes turned to cold terror, and verily he began to quiver.
“Saucy churl,” I told him. “Now shall I break thee in twain!”
So great was my rage that it superseded my common sense, and I had all but forgotten my vulnerable circumstances until I was abruptly reminded by the appearance of three or four sword tips at my own throat. I dropped Fat Face, who crashed loudly to the floor, and I bid my pages offer no resistance, lest they kill us all.
But perhaps not. Perhaps that is not how it happened at all. I cannot remember. My skull pains me greatly, and I fear I may have suffered a blow to the head. All that I know is this: I am a prisoner.
This place is bizarre, unlike any dungeon I have ever seen. My captors, although kind enough to provide me with a pen and paper, will reveal nothing whatsoever regarding who ordered my imprisonment, or what shall become of me. I suspect Philip Augustus, that treacherous, back-stabbing, one-eyed blackguard, may be behind all this, but when I inquired this of the guards they claimed they had no idea who this “Philip” was, and bid me hold my peace. How can they not know the king of France? These guards also wear no armor, carry no weapons, and dress in garments most unfamiliar to me. I myself am now clad in a white robe, such as condemned men are forced to wear.
There are others imprisoned here with me. I have heard their voices down the distant corridor where the cells are lined. Some beg pitifully to be released, others, like myself, demand it, some simply babble incessantly and others let forth all manner of ravings, liked caged beasts. Poor fools. I glimpsed a brief attack on a guard this last evening, which pleased me not a little, and had I been able to assist the wretched soul I would have. He was subdued by three or four of them, after dealing one a blow that probably cracked his nose, for the blood flowed freely. I think I hear a voice, singing a song that I helped to compose! Could it be Blondel, my minstrel? I am certain that- No, no! What am I thinking? My captivity causes me to dote.
If I might be free for but a few brief moments, these curs would see what vengeance I would wreak on them with my bare hands. When I am released I shall hang every one of them! I shall deal with them as I dealt with the Infidels at the siege of Acre! I am a fair man, but this is an outrage I will not suffer.
I wonder what has become of my trusty companion, Mercadier. I hope that he fared better than I, and I pray for his safe return so that he may tell my wife, Berengaria, what has befallen her lord. She must tell my brother John to raise a ransom, or to send a force to rescue me. But I fear Mercadier may be slain, and I though it pains me to admit, I do not trust John entirely. Perhaps he and Philip are in collusion, for it is no secret that John is impatient, and covetous of my crown.
I wonder if my fellow prisoners be dukes or earls or barons. If so, half the gold and silver in Europe will not suffice to free us all!
This morning as I shouted to one of my captors through the small hole in my cell door, and insisted that he had no cause to thus imprison Richard the Lionheart, he made a very strange reply, one over which I have puzzled all day. “Richard the Lionheart!” he scoffed. “Last month you were Winston Churchill. Make up your mind.”
All I can ascertain from his odd remark is that everyone in this castle, or whatever manner of fortification it be, is completely insane. God deliver me from them soon!
As always, I remain,
Richard Plantagenet.
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