by Angus Donald
It had taken us four days to ride from Kirkton to Westminster, staying overnight at the castles of friends and allies, our pace much slowed by the wagons, and I was glad to be at our destination. My horse, a well-schooled grey gelding that I called Ghost, who had been with me all the way to Outremer and back, had picked up a stone in his right forehoof outside St Alban’s, and though I had speedily removed it, he was still limping. Fearing that the frog of his hoof had been bruised, I longed for the shelter of a nice quiet stable where he could rest and I could take a proper look at the offending limb.
A little royal hospitality would have been most welcome too, and Queen Eleanor did not disappoint. When we had shed our damp, travel-stained clothes in the dormitory of the Abbey and changed into something more fitting for regal company, we were ushered across the road into the great high hall where we were received by the Queen herself. A feast had been prepared for us, and we gorged on baked swan, lamprey stew and roast boar, with sweet white bread, and refreshed ourselves with the delicious light red wine of Bordeaux, part of Eleanor’s ancestral fiefdom. When the meal was done and we had sluiced the grease from our hands, Robin, Tuck and I were ushered into a private chamber off the side of the hall overlooking the river, along with a couple of the other guests: Walter de Coutances and Hugh de Puiset, two of King Richard’s most loyal supporters in England.
‘Good of you to come so swiftly, Robert,’ said the Queen in French, allowing Robin to stoop and kiss her heavily ringed hand. She had a wonderful voice, deep, rich and a little husky, that sent a delicious ripple down the spine of any man who heard her speak. ‘I know you have your own troubles at present.’
‘He is my King, Your Highness, in chains or out of them,’ replied Robin gravely in the same language. ‘He made me what I am, and I do not forget his kindness.’
Eleanor smiled at me. ‘And if I remember rightly, you are Alan Dale, my scapegrace trouvere Bernard’s old pupil. We met at Winchester, I recall, in rather dramatic circumstances.’ And she favoured me with a nod and twinkle from her bright brown eyes. I was struck once more by how beautiful Eleanor was; she must have been nearly seventy but she remained slim and lithe and her skin was as unlined as a girl’s. Her memory was still excellent, too. She was referring to a time three years ago when I had been publicly unmasked as an outlaw under her roof, a cuckoo in the nest, you might say, and had been unceremoniously slung into the deepest dungeon.
I merely bowed and mumbled: ‘Your Highness, I’m honoured that you remember me…’ and then trailed off, unsure whether or not it would be the proper thing to comment further on my former humiliation in Winchester.
Robin saved me from having to say more: ‘My lady, would you be kind enough to share with us the latest information that you possess about King Richard,’ he said.
‘Yes, you are right, Robin — to business. Walter, what do we know so far?’ said the Queen, looking over at the short, rather dumpy middle-aged churchman standing to her left.
Walter de Coutances might not have seemed very impressive, and his speaking voice was the dull, inflectionless monotone of a dusty scholar, but he was said to be the cleverest man in England, and he was surely one of the most powerful. He had been a vice-chancellor under the old King Henry, and then had been made Archbishop of Rouen by him. When old Henry died, Walter had invested Richard as Duke of Normandy and had helped to crown him King of England three years ago. I knew him by sight, as he had accompanied Richard on the Great Pilgrimage, but he had been sent back to England from Sicily to act for the King at home in his absence, and we had never actually spoken to each other.
Walter cleared his throat. ‘The truth is that we do not know very much,’ he began. ‘We understand that Richard took ship from Outremer in October of last year and that, as most of Europe was closed to him, he attempted to travel in secret up to Saxony in eastern Germany, where he was sure of a friendly welcome from his brother-in-law Duke Henry. He landed, we think, somewhere to the east of Venice, near Aquileia on the Adriatic coast…’
As Walter continued in his dry voice, I reflected how unfortunate it was that Richard had made so many enemies among the powerful men of Europe while taking part in the Great Pilgrimage. As well as a falling out with King Philip of France and Duke Leopold of Austria, he had alienated Henry VI, the Holy Roman Emperor, Leopold’s overlord and ruler of most of Italy, by making a treaty with Tancred of Sicily, a rich island that the Emperor coveted. With France and Italy barred to him, Richard had little choice but to take the long eastern route home. And this apparently had been his downfall.
‘… he wanted to travel in secret,’ Walter droned on, ‘and so, unwisely as it turned out, the King dismissed all but a handful of his men, and travelled in disguise as a Templar knight, north from the Adriatic coast towards Saxony. He didn’t get very far. It seems he was betrayed, or discovered somehow in a, um, a brothel — I fear His Highness has little talent for acting the part of a lesser mortal — and taken by Duke Leopold’s men. At that point we lost track of him and as of now we have no idea where he is. Our spies have, however, intercepted a copy of a letter dated last month from the Emperor to King Philip of France boasting of Richard’s capture.’
Walter rummaged in a stack of documents on the table in front of him and pulled out a curled parchment. He then began to read:
‘Because our Imperial Majesty has no doubt that your Royal Highness will take pleasure in all those providences of God which exalt us and our Empire, we have thought it proper to inform you of what happened to Richard, King of England, the enemy of our Empire and the disturber of our Kingdom as he was crossing the seas on his way back to his dominions…’
The letter proceeded to recount what Walter had just told us about Richard’s journey and ended:
‘Our dearly beloved cousin Leopold, Duke of Austria, captured the king in a disreputable house near Vienna. He is now in our power. We know this news will bring you great happiness.’
‘I’ll wager it will!’ exclaimed Hugh de Puiset, a small, shrill, bouncy man, who seemed rather too excitable to be a bishop. ‘He must be the happiest man in Christendom! And you will note that there is no acknowledgement, no mention at all in the letter that the Germans are breaking the Truce of God that protects all Christian knights who fought in Outremer. We must complain to His Holiness the Pope at once: the person of a knight taking part in a holy pilgrimage, or returning from one, and all his lands and property are sacrosanct! This is an outrage! Both Emperor Henry and Duke Leopold must be excommunicated at once!’
I thought of the Templars’ threat to Robin, and wondered how much an Emperor would care about being excommunicated; if Robin, a mere earl, could safely ignore it, was it much of a sanction for a great European monarch?
‘Well, yes, of course,’ said Walter slowly. ‘Excommunication — certainly, we are already working on His Holiness to achieve that. But will that threat alone bring King Richard safely back to us? I very much doubt it.’
‘The real problem is Philip of France,’ said Robin. Everyone in the room stared at him. It seemed an odd thing to say. But Walter de Coutances was smiling and nodding at my master, who continued talking into the amazed silence: ‘Both Henry and Leopold need silver, some would say they need it very badly. But King Philip’s treasury is well stocked; what Philip wants is land. He wants Normandy — in truth, he wants all of King Richard’s possessions on that side of the Channel. And this is his best chance to get it. Philip may well attempt to buy Richard from the Germans and then force our King to give up his lands across the sea.’
There was a pause while we digested Robin’s words.
‘Richard would never willingly cede any of his patrimony. Not a single acre. Never, not while he draws breath,’ said his mother stoutly.
‘And what of Prince John?’ asked Robin. ‘If Richard were dead, would he cede Normandy to Philip in exchange for the English crown?’
There was an uncomfortable silence, which no one appeared to want to break. John
, too, was the son of Eleanor, and no one wished to offend her with a candid expression of their opinion of him.
‘Where is the Prince now, by the way?’ said Robin. He seemed to want to make a point of some sort.
The silence in that royal chamber was like a physical presence; an uncanny emptiness of noise. Finally, Archbishop Walter let out a long sigh and said: ‘He is in London at the moment, but we have information that he is making plans to pay a visit to Paris.’
‘Ah,’ said Robin.
Robin and Queen Eleanor and her counsellors met several times over the next few days, but feeling out of my depth surrounded by so many great and wise folk, and having little to contribute to the discussions, I begged Robin to excuse me from joining in their further deliberations. This left me kicking my heels in the echoing space of Westminster Hall, for Ghost was unable to put any weight on his lamed foot and I owned no other mount except an elderly mule, a pack animal unsuitable for riding. To counter my boredom, I set out to explore the area around Westminster — by boat.
I had made friends with a local waterman named Perkin, a snub-nosed, red-headed fellow of about my age who was the proud owner of a sixteen-foot skiff. I was not a good sailor and had unhappy memories of travelling by sea during the Great Pilgrimage, but being carried downstream on the current of the Thames was a wholly different and quite pleasurable experience. With Perkin manning the long steering oar, we would be wafted gently down around the bend in the river to the City of London. These journeys gave me a sense of serenity: alone on the water with my new friend, and nary a sound but the slap of waves against the sides of his skiff and the harsh cry of a seagull or perhaps the occasional friendly hail of a passing boatman, I felt all my cares slip away, washed downstream, along with Perkin and myself, by the grey-brown waters of the Thames. At that time, I found it a novel experience to see the city from the water, sweeping slowly past quays where merchants unloaded their wares, their cloths and spices, and crates of exotic fruit; floating gently past the high walls of grand townhouses, past markets with fishermen crying their catch of the day, right up to the half-built stone bridge where the current, squeezed between the tall arches, speeded up in the centre of the river and we were shot through the dark tunnel on a wave of green spume and laughter. I liked to look upwards at the vault of the bridge’s arches, and the chapel dedicated to St Thomas a Becket in the centre of the structure, as we were swept under it, until Perkin quietly informed me that some of the wooden buildings that jutted out of the side of the bridge were privies and that I must be wary of falling ordure. We would return, Perkin and myself hauling on an oar each, up the calmer side of the river near the southern bank, where the bridge had yet to be completed, past the bustling Augustinian Priory of Southwark and the wide foul-smelling mud flats and miniature forests of bulrushes, and then the long pull round the bend on the side of the open heathland of Lambeth moor and finally back across the river to Westminster.
One day, I took Goody with us in Perkin’s boat, thinking she might enjoy a day out away from the chattering women of the Queen’s court.
It was a disaster.
My feelings for Goody were muddled at that time. Having known her since she was a child, I tended to forget that she was now a young woman, and found myself treating her with the rough friendliness and condescension due to a younger sister. On that misty February morning, when I took her down to Perkin’s skiff and introduced her to the waterman, she seemed out of sorts, bad tempered and snappish, and I noticed that she had a very small spot on the end of her nose. Much later, it occurred to me that it might have been her time of the month. As I handed her into the boat she stumbled slightly and I had to catch her to stop her falling into the muddy shallows of the Thames. Accidentally, I swear on the bones of Christ, as I grabbed her body, I found myself clutching at her small hard breasts. When she was righted again, and safely on board, she slapped me, a hard stinging blow that left my head ringing. I was astounded, speechless. I had not meant to manhandle her in a lascivious way, I was merely trying to save her splashing into the filthy river water.
‘You keep your rough soldier’s hands to yourself, Alan Dale,’ she said tartly as she sat down and arranged her skirts around her in the prow of the skiff. ‘I’ve been warned about this sort of thing: men who come back from a war with only one thing on their minds. I don’t know what strumpets you encountered on your travels in the East, but you are in Christian lands now and here you may not so easily paw a lady for your pleasure.’
Perkin began laughing so hard he almost fell overboard. I flushed with sudden impotent rage and took my seat in the centre of the boat, silent, seething. At that moment, I could have happily picked her up and tossed her in the mud. Instead, I ground my teeth and looked out to the far Lambeth shore, pretending to study a heron that was flapping lazily along a stretch of marshland. I should have made a joke about it, or apologized, but instead we set off in an awkward, burning silence.
I had chosen a bad day for seeing the sights of London; as we glided along downstream, a low bank of fog began to roll in from the distant sea. Soon we could barely see beyond the end of the skiff, let alone make out the sights of the city, bar a few occasional glimpses through the drifting smoky grey mist.
‘Keep a sharp eye out for other craft, master,’ said Perkin to me. ‘Many a good man has drowned after a careless collision mid-river.’
Seeking to make a joke, but also perhaps, in my heart of hearts, trying to take some revenge, I said: ‘Those other boats won’t have any difficulty in seeing us’ — I grinned at Goody — ‘not with that giant pimple glowing bright as a beacon on my lady’s nose! Ha-ha!’
I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. To be honest, Goody had only a minuscule pink blemish, but I saw that my jesting remark had hit home — and hard. Goody gasped as if I had struck her, her hand flashed to her face to cover the spot, and to my astonishment she suddenly burst into tears, sobbing and snuffling and covering her face as the tears streamed down it. Once again I was speechless — I had seen this very girl once stab a dangerous madman in the eye with a poniard; and in so doing save my life — how could she be crying over a silly jest from an old friend? I felt the immediate urge to go up to the prow and put my arm around her to comfort her, but I feared she would think I was making advances again. And so I did nothing. I merely said gruffly: ‘Are you quite well, my lady? Is there anything I can do for your comfort?’ At which she burst into a fresh bout of sobbing.
We continued downstream, with Goody quietly weeping, myself feeling wretched and useless and Perkin struck dumb with embarrassment at the antics of his two passengers. After a decent interval, I turned to Perkin, and said briskly: ‘Well, we won’t be able to see much today, waterman — shall we go back?’ Then I looked to the prow, saying: ‘Goody?’ and she nodded but said nothing, her face tear-streaked, red and blotched.
We rowed back to Westminster with both Goody and me in abject misery. I could not wait to be out of the boat and away from my shame. What was the matter with the girl: was she ill? Why couldn’t she tell me? As we tied up at the wharf, I offered my hand to Goody, to help her out of the boat, but she ignored my arm and jumped nimbly on to the wooden jetty and without another word, and without any sort of escort, she hurried away into the misty morning making for the haven of the women’s quarters of Westminster Hall.
I was just turning to Perkin to pay him for the boat ride when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw two figures in the crowds by the wharf that triggered a half-memory. There, not twenty yards away, was a very tall, thin man, standing next to a huge, broad man. I knew them, but where had I seen them before? Before I could place them, the two men turned and melted away into the thick banks of river mist and I soon forgot their presence as I tried to make amends for my clumsiness towards Goody by overpaying Perkin.
Chapter Six
I was upset and angry with myself all that day for having made Goody cry — I was very fond of her after all. And, perhaps rashly, I ac
cepted an invitation to go drinking with Bernard that evening. My old vielle teacher took me to a tavern by the river, under the sign of the Blue Boar, where, he said, the wine was expensive but the wenches were cheap. It was a dreary place, one big low room with greasy rushes on the floor and a fire burning in a walled central hearth. At a long counter against one wall, the owner manned barrels of wine and ale, serving us foaming flagons of greenish wine from Germany between wiping at the grime on a shelf of pewter mugs with a dirty rag. Two slatternly girls, full-breasted but clad in nothing more than grubby light chemises, flitted about the place, bringing our drinks to the table with a plate of stale bread, cold pork and pickles. But while I had no appetite for women or food, I drank with sincere conviction, aiming to find oblivion and wash away my feeling of shame with long draughts of the tavern-keeper’s surprisingly good Rhenish wine.
Bernard was dressed in bright silks and was in fine form, cracking jokes, his nose glowing with wine, and telling me about a new work he was composing — I forget the details now, but he claimed it would set the noble houses of Europe ablaze with the exquisite beauty of his music and its wondrously clever rhymes. He insisted on singing a few snatches to me, rudely demanding silence from the two or three other drinkers in the tavern — strangers, of course, rough men by the look of them, who did not take kindly to being told to be quiet by some foppish drunk — while he sang, beating the tabletop with the palm of his hand to keep time. I conceded that it was a decent enough composition, but Bernard seemed disappointed in my response. He then began to tell me about his love affairs with the ladies of Queen Eleanor’s court: they were many and very complicated.
It was clear to me, as my friend boasted and lied outrageously, that he was having the time of his life as Eleanor’s trouvere. However, such was my black humour that I could respond to Bernard’s bright chatter only with grunts and nods. Indeed, I must have been lamentable company, but he took it in good part. For a while I stopped listening entirely and stared around the dingy tavern, my eye eventually alighting on a big, dark-haired man who was muttering to himself and shooting evil glances our way as he stood drinking ale from a gallon pot in the corner.