‘Yes, I— But do you know the extent of her holdings!’
‘The king said it would make me a man of some importance in England. I believe the lady will bring me the Lordship of Striguil; that’s a hundred square miles or so between the Wye and the Usk. And the manor of Weston in Hertfordshire. And Chesterford in Essex. And Badgeworth in Gloucestershire. And the county of Pembroke in Wales; all the land between Carmarthen and St Bride’s. And the Lordship of Leinster in Ireland; with that I shall get the counties of Kildare and Kilkenny, Carlow and Wexford, Queens and a portion of—’
‘That’ll do,’ Richard told him, unable to hide his confusion.
‘You’ve obviously been with the clerks.’ He moved away to think things over, turned back, then dismissed his own unspoken comment. And he had felt sorry for Marshal. Still without a fief. Landless at, what was it, forty-three? And now to be told this.
‘Is it too much,’ Marshal asked, ‘for yesterday’s enemy?’
‘What? No, no, of course not. My father was right to— You did say it was never written out, his promise?’
Be careful, Marshal thought. It can still be lost. He did not think Henry would make so much of me, and it worries him. With justification, for if I was to rise against him as Earl of Pembroke, I could recruit an army from my own lands.
‘No, prince, it was not put down on paper. But it was announced before we retreated to Le Mans. In the presence of the entire court. So I can furnish proof.’ And you will be bound to honour it.
But Richard had already come to terms with the situation. Marriage to Isabel de Clare would indeed make William Marshal a man of importance. Yet he was no self-seeker, and throughout his life he had been loyal to the king. God willing, he would be as loyal to King Richard.
‘I have proof enough,’ he said. ‘You’re as good as ennobled.’ Then with a strangely diffident expression, he asked, ‘Have you seen this woman, Isabel de Clare?’
‘I have heard she is a beauty, and only nineteen or so, but no, I have not yet set eyes on her.’
‘Hmm. You are one for the women, are you, Marshal?’
‘Aren’t we all eager—’ Marshal started, then stopped abruptly. ‘Yes,’ he amended. ‘I look forward to marriage.’
‘And why not?’ Richard murmured. ‘It suits some people.’
Marshal watched him, and kept his thoughts to himself. Like his brothers, Richard of Aquitaine had a ribald sense of humour, and possessed a wealth of bawdy stories. But, unlike John and Geoffrey, he did not sweet-talk the ladies, or seek the more intimate services of the maidservants. It was rumoured that he found his bedmates among the knights and squires of his court, and that he was unnaturally attracted to the disdainful Philip Augustus. But no one dared publicly accuse him of homosexuality and as yet it did not much matter. It would only cause concern if, as King of England, he refused to marry, or married and sired no children. Until then, his hours were his own.
* * *
On 8th July, King Henry II of England was buried in the Angevin church at Fontevrault. The service was attended by Richard and Geoffrey, though there was still no sign of brother John. Marshal had inquired among Richard’s entourage and been assured that it was indeed Lackland’s signature that topped the list of deserters.
‘Then why is he not here? It took eight men to set that lid on Henry’s tomb; he won’t rise up. Is John now afraid of the dead, along with everything else?’
‘Not the dead,’ they told him, ‘but maybe of Richard.’
Within hours of the burial service, he understood what they meant.
Richard produced the list he had made in the French camp at Le Mans – the record of those English knights who had ridden down from Fresnay – and matched it with the more comprehensive list that Henry had demanded on his deathbed. He then told Roger Malchat to draw up another, comprising all those who had remained faithful to the old king.
When it was ready, Richard checked the one against the other, to make sure there were no discrepancies, then worked his way down the list of deserters, disinheriting every man who had come over to him.
Where the turncloaks had looked for reward, they found rejection. Where they had anticipated honours, they earned hatred. Yes, they had sided with the victor, but no, they would not be thanked for it. The Lionheart loathed cowards and indoor men, but above all else he detested changelings. How could he rely on a man who had already abandoned his father? What sense was there in setting a proven thief to guard the silver?
Name by name, the deserters were stripped of their lands and titles, then fined, or banished, or imprisoned. In the space of a day, the nobility of England was given a new face. Those who had hewed unswervingly to the father – or the son – were treated as equals, and the confiscated properties were shared between them. They stood in line to swear fealty to their future king, then hurried away to inspect their new holdings. Richard saw them off with a smile, aware that his reputation for generosity travelled with them. He had made enemies of those he had disinherited, but what harm could they do, stripped naked? His new men, on the other hand, would do whatever he asked them. And, when the time came, pay for their privileges.
* * *
When the give and take of property was concluded, he sent for the dark-skinned commander, and they discussed the one woman in Richard’s life – his mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She was sixty-seven years old now, but still elegant and witty; or with as much wit as one can muster after sixteen years in prison…
In 1173 this extraordinary woman, who had been married to King Louis of France, divorced by him, then married to King Henry of England, was arrested and accused of fomenting rebellion. Her inquisitors claimed that it was she who had turned Henry’s sons against him, while Eleanor maintained that the king merely sought an excuse to have her put away in favour of his current mistress, Rosamund Clifford. The Fair Rosamund, Henry’s supporters called her. Rosa Immunda, the Rose Deflowered, was one writer’s cruel pun.
Since then, Eleanor had been confined in various English castles, and manor houses. Her sons had continued to wage war against their father and, even as a prisoner, the strong- willed queen had exerted considerable influence over the Angevin brood.
When Rosamund Clifford died suddenly, it was rumoured that Eleanor had administered poison. The queen derived sour comfort from the story, and told one of her handmaids, ‘They must think I fly in and out of the window like a bat. If Henry is ever killed in the field, someone is bound to say they saw me strike the blow. I wonder why they bother to lock me in, if I’m to be credited with these far-flung crimes.’
Nevertheless, her influence did not get her released during Henry’s lifetime. It was only now, when the king lay in his sealed stone coffin, that Eleanor’s favourite son told Marshal, ‘I want you to go and free her. I shall be detained on this side of the Channel for some weeks yet, but she’s to be set at liberty without delay. She knows and trusts you, Marshal, even though you fought for the king. And you have a special place in your heart for her, so I’ve been told.’
‘You have been told right,’ Marshal nodded.
The two men were seated in a narrow, low-beamed hall, part of the Bishop of Fontevrault’s palace. Richard had commandeered the building, and had already carved his name in one of the chair arms and cut a cross in an inlaid writing table. He was at work again now, defacing, or as he thought, improving, the chiselled border of a bench. He glanced up from his labours, tapped the blade of his dagger against a bare knuckle and said, ‘Tell me about it. I love stories that speak well of my mother. She is the finest lady that was ever born; under God, she is. There’ll never be one to equal her. Anyway, not that I shall meet.’ He gave a sigh and shrugged, and the simple gesture illustrated his attitude to women. Why struggle against his predilections, when the only woman he liked was his mother?
He whittled at the bench again and said, ‘Go on. What did she do for you?’
‘She set me on the road,’ Marshal told him. ‘I was, what, tw
enty-one? So you were ten, my lord.’ He smiled at the thought of the giant as a downy-haired stripling, then stood up and paced the chamber.
‘I had just returned from England with my uncle, Earl Patrick. He’d been summoned by King Henry to suppress a revolt in Poitou. It was the middle of winter, I remember that, and bitterly cold. We used to wrap hot stones in our clothes, and hold burning branches to warm our metal gloves. The Poitevins said it was the coldest winter in living memory, and we were not inclined to argue.’
‘About my mother.’
Marshal stopped pacing. ‘This is my story,’ he said evenly. ‘Allow me to tell it as it comes.’
Once again the air between them was charged with antagonism. Richard interrupted his woodwork, and the two men gazed at each other.
‘You like to hold the floor, don’t you, Marshal?’
‘I like to tell the story I was asked to tell.’ He waited a little while, then asked, ‘Well, my lord, do I go on?’
‘Of course go on! Nobody said stop.’ He dug the knife into the bench, and ran his tongue noisily over his teeth. God’s legs, Marshal was as touchy as a Provençal troubadour.
‘So,’ Marshal continued, ‘the middle of winter, and we had just taken the castle of Lusignan. King Henry had gone on elsewhere with the army, leaving Queen Eleanor and Earl Patrick and myself in the castle. We were under constant attack from the Lusignan family, and in one month we must have repulsed a dozen assaults. Your mother was magnificent. Nothing was too menial for her, and I swear she spent as many hours on the walls as any of the guards.’
All encouragement now, Richard asked, ‘Did she dress the part?’
‘In armour? Yes, my lord, certainly. We would scarcely have let her go up there unprotected.’
‘I tell you,’ the young duke blurted, ‘she is as good as any man! I’d be as willing to have her beside me in battle—’ He stabbed the bench, wrenched the knife free, then stabbed down again, pitting the buttock-smoothed wood. There was something vehement in his enthusiasm, and Marshal pressed on with his story.
‘Eventually the attacks lessened, and one day we took the opportunity to ride outside the walls. We went heavily-armed at first, but when nothing happened we grew careless, and that’s how they surprised us, the Lusignans, trotting along without a hauberk or helmet between us.’ He saw Richard point accusingly from the bench and said, ‘I know what’s on your tongue. How dare I lecture you about the business at the bridge, when I myself have committed the same sin? Well, for that very reason. It courts disaster.’
Richard curled his finger and went back to defacing the bench.
‘While Earl Patrick sent Queen Eleanor into the castle, we tried to keep the Lusignans from the gate. Unhappily though, one of them rode behind my uncle and drove a spear into his back. Without his hauberk he was as vulnerable as a child. I went for them as best I could, but they cut my horse from under me and stuck a sword in my leg. After that, I was in no shape to fight.’
‘And Earl Patrick?’
‘They killed him. The queen was safe inside by then, but it was a bad day for us.’
The story contained all the elements that appealed to Richard; courage and cowardice, the excitement of battle and, as a rare advantage, the presence of his mother. He was somewhat disappointed that she had been sent from the field, but he could see the sense in it.
‘Then what?’ he asked. ‘You were lucky you weren’t skewered where you lay.’
‘By rights I should have been, for I was worth nothing in ransom. But the Lusignans were not to know that.’
‘Aah, false modesty,’ Richard chided. ‘You had a reputation, even then. King Henry would have paid for you.’
‘Perhaps he would. But it was the queen who purchased my release, out of her own coffers. When the ransom was settled and I was returned to the castle, I found that she’d sent all the way to Rouen for a reliable physician.’
‘Is that what you mean by being set on the road?’
‘In part, though my indebtedness to your mother does not end there. As I said, I possessed nothing of material value, but when my leg had healed Queen Eleanor summoned me to her chamber and said, “These chests are cluttering the place, Marshal. This is not a storehouse, you know.”’
‘What chests?’
‘Two great iron-bound boxes. I explained that I owned no chests, but she waved aside my denials and told me to check through them. So I opened them up and found a lifetime supply of pelissons, leather gambesoms, gloves, belts, several cloaks, boots and shoes, even a painted clasp. Oh, yes, and behind the chests armour and lances. She had omitted nothing, save a fresh horse and its trappings.’
‘Which was waiting for you in the yard.’
‘Wrong,’ Marshal said. They were waiting. A palfrey, a pack-horse – which, by God, I needed and a tub-chested Norman destrier. That’s what I mean when I say Queen Eleanor set me on the road.’
Richard mutilated another section of the bench, then with complete sincerity remarked, ‘I’m glad I did not kill you at the bridge, Marshal. It would have caused my mother great sadness, I can see that now.’
* * *
Next morning, Marshal and Roger Malchat set out for England, with orders to release the widow queen from her prison chambers in the palace at Winchester. That done, the steward would go on to London and prepare for Richard’s arrival. For his part, Marshal would be free to claim the hand of his unseen bride, Isabel de Clare.
Richard would follow later, when he had settled affairs in Normandy and Anjou. And ferreted out brother John.
Chapter Three
Brother John
July, August 1189
It was said that he slept in his boots, for fear of being caught short. True or not, the only men who saw him barefoot were his bath attendants, and the only women, those he bedded. It was painful enough to be known as Lackland, without giving the world the opportunity to cry Dwarf, or Curtcount.
He compensated for nature’s parsimony by having his boots and shoes made with three-inch heels, and by taking his position on any available step or dais. His companions had grown used to his ways, and the diplomats among them wore slippers in his presence and stood stoop-shouldered. Needless to say there were few tall men around John Lackland.
Although he measured less than five-and-a-half feet in height, he was well-proportioned, at least at this time of his life. He was proud of his thick reddish hair and his elegant fingers, and he had developed a mannerism that showed them both to advantage. Presented with a problem, or regaled with a joke, he pressed a hand to his head and held it there, fingers outstretched. Over the years the mannerism had become instinctive; during the last few days it had become incessant.
John had last seen Duke Richard at Tours, the day before their father had died. On that occasion he had added his name to the list of those who had deserted Henry, and had then left the citadel as invisibly as he had left Le Mans. It was with mixed feelings that he had signed the scroll, for he sensed it would destroy the ailing king. But in the past few months Richard and Philip had established complete superiority over the English forces, and it had become increasingly clear that Henry was a doomed man. For too many years John had listened to his father’s promises, and lived in the expectation of lands and largesse. He was Lord of Ireland, but his only visit to the place had ended in disaster, and Henry had hurriedly appointed a justiciar to clean up the mess. At the time, John had been accused of irresponsibility, embezzlement and gross discourtesy to the Irish nobility. But they were charges he refuted. In his opinion, the Irish were uncouth peasants. They wore beards to their waists, and spoke a language that was quite incomprehensible to any but themselves. To hear them tell the story, John had gone over with a group of indolent courtiers, insulted the native priests and princes, raped the women and all but drowned in drink and debauchery. It was a wild exaggeration, of course, but what else could one expect from a nation of hirsute barbarians? A few beards had been tugged in play, and a few appointments
overlooked, and a few women impregnated, and the money had run out before the soldiers could be paid. But was that so terrible? It happened all the time, and if one’s name was Lionheart instead of Lackland, nobody complained.
Nevertheless, he was Lord of Ireland in name only now, and otherwise as landless as a pilgrim.
So, with Henry unable to turn his promises into reality, John had changed sides and signed the list. Then, accompanied by Belcourt and Canton and a few other trustworthy friends, he had left Tours and returned to his hideout, a small village on the Sarthe. His original plan had been to let Henry and Richard and Philip come to terms, then rejoin the family in the hopes that somebody would give him something. But events had taken a different path. Henry had surrendered unconditionally, and died without making any provisions for his youngest son. And now the latest reports spoke of Richard avenging himself on all who had signed the list. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t what he’d been promised.
John Lackland was twenty-one years old, petulant and embittered, and in fear of his life.
* * *
Marshal and Malchat reached Dieppe, where they took ship for England. On their way through Maine they had passed within a few miles of John’s hideout, but they were no longer interested in the turncloak. They had ladies on their minds; Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Isabel de Clare.
Marshal ungallantly suggested that the heiress of Pembroke and Striguil would probably resemble a gargoyle, and that if she cut her hand, she would leak water. ‘I’ve heard she’s a beauty, but how can she be, if she’s worth so much, yet still unmarried?’
The serious-minded steward saw no humour in the comment. ‘Because Henry kept her for you,’ he said, ‘that’s how. I’d say he had her in mind as your wife long before he told you. She has been put by, so think yourself lucky.’ They rode on, and then Malchat relented enough to say, ‘I know why you’re so harsh. You imagine her as satanic in order to avoid disappointment. But what if she is as ugly as a griffon, what then? Will you still marry her for her property?’
The Devil is Loose Page 5