Something told Christopher and the rest of them to be on their guard.
“My lords,” Pandulf spoke in a heavy Italian accent. “As you have heard, I was summoned by your king to deliver a message from the Holy Father.”
Christopher held up a hand. “No offense, but I find it extremely unlikely that the pope would have any message for the warlords of England,” he said. “It is not as if the king and the pope are bedfellows, so tell us from the beginning why you are here and make clear the origins of the message you bear.”
Pandulf wasn’t offended because he knew de Lohr. The man was fair and likeable, most of the time, but his contention with John was well known. He wanted truth, not the twisted stuff John sometimes came up with, and was making that very clear. Any royal meddling with this situation would only make it worse.
“I understand, my lord,” he said. “I have been in England for several years. I am well aware of the relationship between the king and most of his barons, so I assume you would at least give me respect in that regard.”
Christopher, and most of the others seated with him, nodded. “Of course,” Christopher said. “Continue, please.”
Pandulf eyed John before returning his gaze to the warlords. “You are correct when you state the obvious, my lord,” he said. “Our Holy Father and the king are not exactly bedfellows. Many is the time I have had to give the king absolution for something he has done, so I am not his bedfellow, either. Will you acknowledge this?”
Christopher and the others nodded. “Without question,” Christopher said.
Pandulf nodded shortly. “Good,” he said. “My duty is to God and to the church, in that order, so the message I bear has no bearing upon the king, but upon the rightness of your rebellion against the lawful king. Nay, I do not simplify this situation by calling it simply a ‘rebellion’. It goes deeper than that and I am aware, but rebellion is the closest word to the situation that I can choose. I pray your forgiveness if it is not the right one, but for the sake of argument, I shall use it.”
No one seemed to give him much of a reaction. They were listening closely, so he continued.
“Then let me come to the point,” he said, fixed on Christopher. “The king has declared himself a crusader, a warrior for God, which affords him papal protection. I received a missive from our Holy Father a few weeks ago instructing me to relay the following to you – as rebels against the rightful king’s rule of England, a man who has sworn his sword and army to God, any warlord resisting John’s rule shall be excommunicated from the church. Be advised that Stephen Langdon, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has been removed from his post because of his alliance to the rebellion. That was why I was late to this meeting, my lords. Langdon was removed, as all of you shall be excommunicated if you do not swear your allegiance to the king and surrender London, which you still hold for your rebellion. Our Holy Father considers your actions against the king illegal and unjust, as the king swears that he was forced to agree to your terms. He did not agree willingly. He has therefore appealed to the Holy Father for assistance and he shall receive all Rome can do for him in this matter.”
It was a shocking ultimatum, one that had not been expected. Though the pope had gotten involved in the signing of the Magna Carta somewhat, these revelations on what John had done, and the consequences with the church, were astonishing. John had made it well known throughout his reign that he disagreed with the church. There was no love lost there. So to hear what he had done in order to force the hand of the rebelling warlords… it was truly astonishing.
Christopher’s gaze never moved away from Pandulf.
“Nearly ever warlord in this chamber went on crusade,” he said evenly. “We were all warriors for God. Where is our support from a man we killed thousands for?”
“You are not the king.”
“The king never killed in the name of God,” Christopher snapped. “We did. The king only took a crusader’s oath to circumvent our opposition. You know this, Pandulf.”
Pandulf did, but he was in a bad spot. Pandulf eyed John, who was gazing at him expectantly, knowing the pope was on his side. For Pandulf, it was a sickening moment.
“I am afraid I cannot make any decisions, my lord,” he said. “I am only the messenger. You have until the autumn harvest to make your decision so that I may report your choice to the Holy Father. Until then, you are still honored members of the church, but only for now should your decision be otherwise.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “Then let me make it plain to you and to the king so there is no question as to what will happen should we refuse your offer,” he said. “He loses our armies. He loses tens of thousands of men who would heed the call should it be needed – for example, for a crusade to The Levant to fight for Christendom. Hundreds of churches would lose their patrons. They cannot survive without their patrons and you know this to be true. My wife and I are patrons to a dozen churches along the Marches and all monetary support would be removed. Shall I go on?”
Pandulf knew the threat wasn’t an idle one. But he also knew he had a position to take and that was with the Holy Father. He had no choice. Slowly, he shook his head.
“It is not necessary, my lord,” he said. “I understand that such a move, for both factions, would be… devastating.”
John, who had been listening to the conversation, was incensed that Christopher and his allies hadn’t immediately cowered at the suggestion of excommunication. Pandulf had been his secret weapon in his battle against his barons, but they didn’t seem overly impressed by the threat and that outraged him.
“Do you understand that without the church’s support, you would have nothing, de Lohr?” he said, aghast. “You would be a man without an immortal soul. Your family, your children, would be excommunicated as well. You have young sons. They could not be knighted in the usual sense. One of your sons is here, now, in young Peter. Peter could not hope to marry an eligible woman from a good family with his father excommunicated, a rebel leader, a man to be scorned.”
Peter heard his name. Standing near The Marshal, he didn’t like the way the king was browbeating his father. His father was the most righteous, decent man he knew and John’s bullying didn’t sit well with him. He opened his mouth to defend his father, but Alexander was standing next to him. He must have sensed Peter’s inclination to respond given he was the subject of discussion and the moment he flinched, he felt Alexander’s grip on his arm, pulling him away from the table.
Sherry’s instincts were better than most.
Even so, neither Christopher nor John noticed. They were still focused on each other.
“I will be no more scorned than a disfavored king,” Christopher rumbled threateningly. “In fact, you risk making all of us martyrs against an unjust king. At the moment, you only have the animosity of your warlords, but if you excommunicate us, you’ll have the animosity of your people as well. Therefore, we will survive. We always do, so if your threat is a real one, be prepared for the consequences.”
John was genuinely stricken that the threat from the pope hadn’t immediately turned the tides of the meeting. The warlords were sticking together. But there was someone who hadn’t entirely sided with them and his gaze moved to William Marshal, standing at the edge of the table.
John and William had suffered through a tumultuous relationship over the years. John knew that William ran the most elite spy ring the world had ever seen. At times, that ring had supported the king but at other times, it had been against him. It had been an odd relationship between the king and The Marshal’s spies, preserving the monarchy of a king they disliked. John knew that most of the men at the table were part of that ring, or at least had been at one point. Christopher and William Marshal were as thick as thieves even if they were on opposite sides this time, but the situation was salvageable, in John’s opinion.
He would make it so.
His attention moved to Daveigh.
“I must speak to Pembroke alone,” he said, u
sing William Marshal’s official title as the Earl of Pembroke. “Show us a private chamber.”
Daveigh did and everyone watched with curiosity and trepidation as John and William disappeared into a nearby solar. That had Christopher on his feet, pulling the men at the table with him. Instead of remaining indoors, they went outside, into the wide street that fronted Hollyhock House. It was a major thoroughfare through London, just south of Westminster Palace, now mostly blocked off with the escorts of the men attending the meeting.
It was the safest place they could be at the moment.
“Thank God,” Marcus muttered as he came up behind Christopher, who had stopped in the middle of the street. “I was starting to suffocate in there. Any air John breathes is like poison.”
As Christopher nodded, David piped up. “Why are we out here?” he said.
Christopher wiped a weary hand over his face. “Because we have more privacy out here than we did in that chamber,” he said. “Anything I say to you, someone is going to overhear, but out here – there is less chance of anyone from John’s horde hearing us.”
“Even The Marshal?” Maxton muttered softly.
Christopher looked at Maxton. “Even The Marshal.”
Maxton shrugged.
Christopher’s gaze lingered on the man he shared a semi-like/hate relationship with and had for many years. They were both dominant males, both thinking and acting very much alike. Maxton had always thought Christopher was too arrogant for his own good and Christopher simply didn’t have any love for Maxton and his brooding ways. They butted heads frequently on many issues but, oddly enough, they would both kill or die for each other, hence Maxton’s charge over the feasting table to get at des Roches. Christopher would acknowledge that at some point, but not now.
He had more important things on his mind.
He looked around the circle of men, now gathering out in the middle of the street – Wolverhampton, Teviot, Ajax de Velt, East Anglia, Caius, Maxton, Savernake, d’Umfraville, de Bourne, Canterbury, Dashiell, Sherry, Peter, and Marcus. So many fine, trusting, seasoned warriors.
He looked directly to the older men.
Men who had forged a nation, who were legendary in English history, and warlords the likes of which would probably never be seen again. The first one he focused on was Ajax, his old and dear friend. De Velt was the original barbaric knight, The Dark Lord who still struck fear into the hearts of men. He was quite elderly as far as fighting men went, but no less fearsome.
The man was truly ageless.
“Jax,” Christopher addressed him. They had long since gotten past any formalities between them. “In all of the brutal things you did in the past, did you ever run up against the church excommunicating you?”
Jax fought off a grin. “They were too frightened to,” he said, watching the others snort. “In a serious answer to your question, nay, I was never excommunicated, or if I was, I did not know about it.”
“Then what are your thoughts on this?”
Jax glanced at the older men around him – Juston de Royans was one. They were longtime acquaintances, only allies in their later years, but the respect of decades of experience was there. He glanced at Talus du Reims, too, whose father had fought during the anarchy between Stephen and Matilda those years ago. Older men with a good deal of knowledge, who had dealt with John’s father, Henry, at length. John’s father, who had upended the monarchy from time to time.
His attention returned to Christopher.
“It is my sense that John’s decisions are often based on his own selfish wants, of course, but also on spur of the moment judgments,” he said. “He has gone to the Holy Father to side with him in the hopes of forcing you into submission and from the expression on his face, he was surprised when you did not immediately capitulate.”
“He’ll push the excommunication,” Juston said as Jax nodded in agreement. “He’ll make sure we’re all excommunicated but he will not realize the long-term results until well after the fact. Excommunication changes nothing. Most of us have our own chapels and we will worship in our own way, so it changes nothing except John will have divided this country more than it already is. Excommunication gains him nothing, but he does not see that now.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “He’s using it as a threat.”
“A threat that will turn on him in the end.”
“But he is right in one way,” Marcus said quietly. “It will complicate things for our families, our children, our relatives. My eldest daughters are already married, but I have five sons and two more daughters who will need spouses someday. It will lessen the choices if we are excommunicated.”
Christopher looked at the man who had been his best friend for many years. “And you cannot find enough attractive choices between all of us who will be excommunicated?”
Marcus scowled, but it was with humor. “I do not want any de Lohr offspring tainting my bloodlines,” he said. “De Royans, either. Pah.”
The men were chuckling. “That is good,” Christopher said. “Because I certainly do not want any of yours, either. I’d rather my children marry puppies. In any case, know that I, for one, do not intend to negotiate or submit to a threat from a man who corrupts his holy power as he sees fit. Pandulf is a fair man, but his superior is not. The Holy Father can excommunicate me if he wishes to, for it will not change my mind about the rightness of what we are doing and the goals we intend to accomplish.”
“Are you certain there is not a grudge against the king that is clouding your judgment?”
The question came from Talus du Reims, an excellent warrior from a long line of warriors. He and Christopher had known each other for many years, including the history of Christopher’s relationship with the royal family.
But Christopher simply shook his head.
“There is no grudge, I assure you,” he said. “There never has been. I was Richard’s champion, once, but that was a very long time ago. John was a spoiled, conniving prince at the time and he is a spoiled, conniving king now. That has not changed. But I tell you now that any sense of surrender to him will be a sign of weakness and, at this moment, we do not need to be viewed as weak. If we do not stand together, mark my words, John will pick us off one at a time.”
CHAPTER TWO
“I must pick them off one at a time.”
The words came from John, spoken in a hissing tone that had weight and petulance behind it. The Marshal found himself facing a monarch he’d once called a necessary evil, a man he shared his own tempestuous history with. He continued to stand by the door of Daveigh’s small solar, perhaps to be able to rush out should he need to. Being shut up in a chamber with the king was not something he was comfortable with.
“Pick them off?” he repeated. “I do not understand.”
John threw up his hands. “Like a hunter selects his prey,” he said. “It is like shooting boar – in a group, they are strong, but if you weaken that group one at a time, it will eventually scatter.”
“And you compare your warlords to boar?”
John sighed sharply. “I have done everything they’ve asked of me,” he said. “I was coerced into signing that document at Runnymede, but I have no intention of honoring it.”
“They know that.”
“The Holy Father himself says that it is illegal and immoral for them to do such a thing.”
“They did it because you govern England like a fat man governs a feast,” William said. “You pick and choose your favorites, throw away those who displease you, and turn the dogs loose on others. Your Grace, I have lived through three kings. Though you are the rightful king, your methods could be better. Those men out there had no choice.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “You dare to insult me?” he spat. “Careful, Pembroke – you are only here by my good graces. I do not need you.”
“Aye, you do,” William said, refusing to be intimidated by a spoiled man he hated to his bones. “If you did not need me, I would not be here. You want me
to control the warlords. De Lohr, Burton, de Royans, and de Velt. All of them. That is the only reason you have brought me here – to control them. To bring them onto your side. I am the most valuable man in your kingdom at the moment, so let us dispense with the threats. You brought me in here for a reason. What is it?”
John postured angrily for a few moments longer, but the truth was that William was right. He had brought him into the chamber for a reason. But he wasn’t ready to give in so quickly. He didn’t like the feeling that The Marshal was one step ahead of him, though it had always been true. Throughout their decades-long history, William Marshal had almost always been at least one step ahead.
But not this time.
To get what he wanted, John was prepared to bargain.
“It seems that the threat of excommunication did nothing,” he said. “Are they really so arrogant in the face of God?”
The Marshal shrugged. “Not in the face of God,” he said. “They are pious men. They are fair men. But you do not seem to like that they are fair and pious.”
“Why do you say such things?”
“If you did not treat them so poorly, you would not have this problem,” he said, growing bolder. “Your Grace, I have fought since the time of your father. I was his favorite knight and you are well aware. You have abused me, cast me aside, called me back, and now I stand in a chamber with you while you clearly have something more you wish to say to me. I have always been your servant, but not your trained dog, as de Lohr called des Roches. I will do all I can to further England’s cause, but I will not do it at the cost of those good men out there. Yet here I am, on your side, because you are the king. Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”
John was somewhat taken aback by that speech. He couldn’t decide if he was enraged or in agreement. Indecisive, he backed off, finding a cushioned chair to sit in as he pondered his next move. Finally, he looked at William.
The Splendid Hour: The Executioner Knights Book 7 Page 4