In a castle called Trifels, on a wind-swept mountain in what's now Southwest Germany, a lonely

prisoner sings a mournful song.

He's written it himself in solitary confinement, and it's a sorry lament.

As the wind draws around the high tower that holds his cell, he works on the words.

In Old French, the song begins, in English that roughly translates as,

a prisoner can never speak his mind openly, without sadness.

He mourns the number of his so-called friends who won't raise the money he needs to get

him out of jail.

He sings that he would never treat anyone the way that he's been treated.

He howls that going to prison is like death.

Once you're out of sight, all your family and allies quickly forget you ever existed.

And he calls out the knights who should be loyal to him.

Their swords are sheathed and rust unused while I languish here.

But who I hear you cry is our solitary troubadour.

Ladies and gentlemen, we present to you none other than Richard the Lionheart, Plantagenet

King of England.

Richard is singing the blues, and to be fair, he has every right to.

It's spring 1193, and he's been in prison for more than three months.

First, up a different mountain, Dernstein in Austria, then at the court of the German

Emperor, and now in the blasted wilderness of trifles.

And that's not his only problem.

Besides being locked up with nothing to do but write emo tunes, Richard also has to deal

...