The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  The advent of Richard and John brought Marshal from the country. He and Isabel had been installed in an attractive manor house in the village of Stoke d’Abernon in Surrey, and the two weeks they had spent there were among the happiest they had known. Ungallantly, Marshal cursed himself for not having married earlier in life, then accepted that it was not the state of wedlock that made him happy, but Isabel de Clare. Although he enjoyed the company of women, he was critical of them, but so far his wife’s most apparent fault was that she rose after dawn and ignored the coming of night. They were not soldiers’ hours, but then, to be fair to himself, he was not on campaign.

  He left Isabel and her servants safe in the moated manor and rode to London, where he rejoined Roger Malchat and Sheriff Fitz Renier. Although Malchat had not yet been offered the stewardship of Richard’s court, no one doubted he would get the job, nor that Fitz Renier would retain the shrievalty of London. They were both reliable men, well-versed in civil administration, and their knowledge would leave Richard free to organize his Crusade.

  Strangely, the only one whose position was insecure was Marshal himself. Marriage to Isabel de Clare had brought him extensive lands in England, Wales and Ireland. He was now Earl of Pembroke, Lord of Striguil – a vast network of fiefs spread throughout nine English counties – and Lord of Leinster in Ireland. His holdings in England and Wales made him one of the most important barons in the kingdom, while possession of the Irish counties of Kildare, Kilkenny, Carlow and Wexford placed him on a level with the nobility of Europe.

  But John was already Lord of Ireland, and he would not be happy to lose the fertile counties that made up Leinster. At best, he would claim the right to bestow them on whomsoever he chose – not necessarily William Marshal. At worst, he would try to keep them for himself.

  In a contested claim of this kind, the final arbiter would be Richard Lionheart. The question was, who was more likely to convince him, the man who had knocked him off his horse, or his contrite, dish-eyed brother?

  But there were greater priorities and, during the latter half of August, all London prepared for Richard’s coronation. He arrived with his mother and they installed themselves in the palace at Westminster. A week later they left for Marlborough, where, on 29th August, they attended the wedding of brother John and Hadwisa of Gloucester. Marshal had not seen John since his arrival in England, and prudently remained in London. If John was offended by his absence – well, they could squabble about that when they argued possession of Leinster. But before all else, England needed a king.

  * * *

  It was, by any measure, a magnificent parade. Sunday morning, 3rd September, and it seemed that half the English army was lining the road between the palace and Westminster Abbey. Bolts of cloth carpeted the ground, and the soldiers leaned back against the cheering crowd in a desperate effort to keep them from soiling the cloth. Flags and banners had been suspended overhead, but a few had proved too heavy for their fastenings and swung down like soft-bladed axes. They were seized by the nearest onlookers and draped from the windows. There were flowers everywhere, and an extraordinary variety of dress. No colour was missing except yellow, for that was worn by the Jews, and they were not welcome at this Christian celebration.

  Crosses had been nailed to the doors, or hung in the windows where they rapped the watchers on the head. Musical instruments were in evidence, and innumerable lutists roared or warbled songs specially composed for the occasion. To this cacophony was added the cries and shrieks of children, aware that, today, they were at liberty to cry and shriek; women who screamed blessings, men who bellowed their loyalty, then broke off to curse whoever had stepped in their way; all these and the grunting soldiers, struggling to keep back the crowd…

  There was an advance guard of mounted knights, then purple-robed clerics, then the senior Churchmen, moving through the drifting clouds of incense. Hands were cupped around candle-flames, and the sun sparkled on beads of holy water and on gold spurs, a gold cross, gold swords that rested beside gold-encrusted scabbards. Marshal passed, bearing the sceptre. It looked new, for much of the regalia had been hastily refashioned after the theft of King Henry’s treasure. John passed, in step with the Earl of Leicester, each carrying one of the swords of state. Then there were others, responsible for the king’s coronation garments, and these were followed by the great William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex.

  He was the son of the notorious Geoffrey de Mandeville, who, fifty years before, had helped prolong England’s first and most bitter civil war. His acts of atrocity had culminated in the sacking of a Benedictine monastery, for which he had been excommunicated. On his death – a violent one, as befitted such a man – his body was refused burial in hallowed ground. His only friends were members of the harsh military order of the Knights Templar, but not even the Templars dared inter him. They took his body, sealed in a lead coffin, and suspended it from an apple tree in their orchard in London. And there it hung for twenty years, until the Church lifted its curse…

  But the sins of the father had not been visited upon the son, and William de Mandeville had remained loyal to King Henry throughout his reign. He was also popular with the people, who cheered him on his way.

  And then Richard was in view, flanked by the bishops of Bath and Durham, and the crowd surged forward against the sweating fence, and the plainsong was finally drowned in the wave of noise.

  He was shadowed by a white silk canopy, with spears for tent poles. The shaft of each spear was gripped by one of England’s senior barons; a supreme honour, and hard on the wrists. He nodded left and right, acknowledging the roar, and made no attempt to keep in step with the bishops. His long, even stride was not lost on the crowd, and they were delighted when he suddenly quickened his pace, forcing the barons to rebalance the swinging canopy. Oh, he had a sharp turn of humour.

  He was not yet their king, not by an hour or so, but he had been modelled for the part. His red hair and round, open face; his thick neck, rooted in broad, tapering shoulders; his deep chest and solid belly; thick wrists and arms, long, powerful legs and a spring in his stride. God had carved him thus, in preparation for the day. And in this perfect body He had implanted the mind of a leader, and the heart of a lion. They shouted until their throats were raw, then croaked their joy.

  Small wonder that the crowd became hysterical and threatened to crush the procession. They had at last been given a king worthy of their dreams. Richard of Anjou, and of Normandy – and now of England!

  He would defeat the chilly Philip of France! He would reconquer Palestine, and wrest the holy city of Jerusalem from the devils of Islam! He would make England the richest and most powerful nation in the West! No, in the world! He would, wait and see, he would! Christ be praised, he would!

  Their wrists aching, the four barons shadowed him along the street and into the open area in front of the Abbey. The populace were hemmed in along two sides of the square, but there was still some confusion. The fourth side of the square had been reserved for those who would attend the ceremony but had not taken part in the procession, among them Queen Eleanor, John’s wife Hadwisa, and Isabel de Clare. With them were numerous relatives and friends, important visitors from France and Germany, Italy and Spain, even a few influential merchants. These had been invited at Richard’s behest, for merchants meant money, and the cost of the coronation was— He drove the thought from his mind, for fear that his heart would stop. It was as well the people cheered, for they, too, must pay for their pleasure.

  The tail of the procession wound into the square. Churchmen and officials clustered around the Abbey door. Eleanor and Hadwisa led the dignitaries forward, and the assemblage somehow resolved itself into a line. Standing to one side, the principal organisers, Malchat and Fitz Renier, agreed that it had not gone badly. No one had tried to assassinate Richard. The few gate-crashers had been discovered and evicted. It had not rained. The Abbey had not burned down. The regalia was all acounted for. John had behav
ed himself and kept his hands off the girls in the crowd. Richard seemed happy, thank God. Yes, it could have been worse.

  * * *

  There had been a dozen candles in the chapel at Chinon. Here, in Westminster Abbey, there were hundreds. The building blazed with light, a sensible precaution against the September, weather. It would be embarrassing if the sky suddenly darkened, leaving the clergy to grope their way through the service. So the smell of burning tow mingled with incense and individual perfumes, while the congregation blinked in the acrid air.

  Richard was led forward to kneel at the altar. In front of him were grouped the senior Churchmen of England and Normandy. They would all play a part in the ceremony, though the major role belonged to Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Once, as the procession had reached the Abbey, and again now, seeking him out in the congregation, Baldwin glared at Prince John. The Archbishop had thought seriously of barring John’s entry to the church, and it was with the greatest reluctance that he had abandoned the idea. It would have angered Richard, while John would have revelled in the ugly scene. But just because the consanguineous creature had sauntered into God’s house, it did not mean he was welcome. Neither he, nor his cousin-wife. Each was as guilty as the other, and they would pay the penalty for their incest.

  Baldwin returned his attention to the ceremony, content in the knowledge that he had dispatched a strong appeal to Pope Clement in Rome. It had been sent in secret, and John did not know of it. But Baldwin was foolish to underestimate the prince, for John had done exactly the same, and Baldwin did not know that. It posed an interesting problem for Clement, reading the same story by such divergent authors.

  On his knees, Richard was shown the splinter of wood, said to be from the True Cross on which Christ was, crucified, and the vial that was purported to contain the blood of John the Baptist. The great illuminated Bible was laid open before him, and he touched it with his fingertips as he recited the vows of a king. He swore to be honourable and peaceable all the days of his life, and to worship God and revere the Church; to show mercy and justice to all his peoples, and to whomsoever appealed to him for help; to seek out evil laws and practices and destroy them, as he would support and strengthen all laws that were made for the betterment of mankind. He spoke slowly, giving the echoes time to fade.

  Marshal had completed his work, and now found himself with Malchat on his left and, on his right, Prince John. He silently cursed his friend for having arranged things so tactlessly, but before he could let Malchat know, John swayed sideways to murmur, ‘I heard how you unseated him at Le Mans. I left too soon.’

  There was a low hum of conversation in the Abbey, so Marshal risked a reply. Speaking to John for the first time since Henry’s army had retreated to Le Mans, he said, ‘You did, prince. You should have stayed, you and your friends. We needed labourers, to chop down the bridge.’

  John stiffened, then nodded to himself. Very well. If that was the way of it. If this upstart, this parvenu, this earl-for-a-week, if he wished to be uncivil, then incivility would be the watchword.

  ‘I’ve seen your lady, Marshal. Very pretty she is. Solace for your old age, eh? And how she draws the glances.’

  ‘She always did. It’s only now that men might lose their eyes because of it.’

  John swayed away again, reloaded his tongue, then rocked back to murmur, ‘Don’t be too eager to gouge out eyes. Remember, I have a part of her, too. The part that rests in Ireland. I shall be king there soon, and her holdings will be at my disposal.’

  ‘My holdings,’ Marshal corrected. ‘I shall do homage to you as your vassal, but I shall retain my authority in Leinster. It is the better part of my lady’s inheritance; the part for which I shall fight most strenuously.’

  It was a clear warning of his intentions, and it had come sooner than John had expected.

  ‘Now listen to me, earl fledgling! I could go forward this instant, and Richard would give me what I wanted. I can approach him at any time and in any place, and catch his ear. Retain your authority in Leinster? You will be fortunate to retain Leinster at all!’

  ‘Pray I do,’ Marshal snapped, ‘for if you’re in charge we are bound to lose it!’ It was a dangerous retort, and one John would remember. But Marshal was furious that the prince had chosen this time to start a squabble, and furious with himself for having contributed to it. Damn John for the troublemaker he was. And damn Malchat, for tying them together.

  Meanwhile, Richard had moved to his throne, where he had been divested of his street clothes. He now stood in knee-length linen breeches and a linen shirt, unlaced at the chest. He would never again appear so humble before his subjects, but he was not embarrassed. After all, he had the body for it, and for one irreligious moment he was tempted to stretch his arms. Then one of the prelates motioned to him to be seated and guided his feet into doe-skin slippers. That done, Baldwin stepped forward to anoint him with holy oil, making the sign of the cross on his naked shoulders and forearms and deep, unflinching chest. Then they dressed him in a cap and full-length tunic, and he was presented with a sword with which to smite Christ’s enemies. Spurs were strapped to his ankles, a reminder of his vows of knighthood. A magnificent cloak, stiff with embroidery, was draped around his shoulders, and he was allowed a moment in which to settle the clothes and take a firm grasp on the sword and sceptre. Then he was invited to stand before the altar again, to hear Baldwin’s formal warning.

  ‘In the name of God Almighty, do not accept the crown unless you mean to keep it for your people, and with it to keep the oaths you have made, and fidelity to the Church.’

  Richard bowed his head, thinking that Baldwin’s voice carried well, for an old man.

  ‘I do accept!’ he boomed in reply. ‘Under God I shall keep my word and serve my people!’ Pleased with the sound of his own voice, he reiterated, ‘Under God I shall!’

  Baldwin’s stern tones had subdued the congregation, but it was Richard who silenced them. If his body had been created for parades and combat, his voice equally belonged on the battlefield, or in such a place as this. His words leapt from niche to pillar, from wall to wall. It started the hairs on the back of the neck, and made the eyes widen in alarm. One could sneer at the transparent drama of it, and there were those who did, the widest sneer settling on the lips of brother John. But no one could deny the power of the man, nor his right to be where the candles were brightest.

  He was an actor without inhibition, a commander devoid of doubt. And now, as two barons lowered the heavy crown upon his head, he was the King of England, as they had all known he would be.

  It was not yet over, for he had to pay a token coin at the altar, and there was Mass to be celebrated. The unendurable crown was removed by the same hefty barons and Richard was led to a chair, merely one of the congregation before God. But there were now guards around the chair, and at the doors of the Abbey, and emissaries were already riding out across the country and down to the ports. Their message was simple. Richard is crowned. England has her king.

  * * *

  Part of an inner wall of the palace had been demolished in order to accommodate the twenty trestle tables. More than six hundred guests had been invited to the banquet, and all of them were anxious to see and be seen. Roger Malchat had devoted long hours to the seating arrangements, aware that the guests were, without exception, jealous of their position. If this baron was given a better seat than that one, there had to be a good reason for it. So seniority was balanced against age, title against wealth, Richard’s personal friends against those who had best served England. Fitz Renier helped, but it was Malchat’s doing, and the sheriff eyed him with renewed respect. The cherubic steward worked tirelessly, calling those he knew by name, flattering those he did not. He spoke quietly, so that each woman believed that her gown alone had been singled out for admiration. And each man, whether baron or merchant, acknowledged that he had been given one of the prime seats in the hall.

  If this doesn’t earn
me a place in the king’s household, Malchat thought, there is no justice.

  There was some unavoidable confusion as the guests took their places, and there were the commonplace problems of spilt wine, identical gowns, the clandestine touch of adulterers. An iron bracket fell from the wall and its burning torch set some rushes alight on the floor. But the fire was quickly stamped out by servants, and then, as though he had organized the display, King Richard advanced through the smoke. He had changed from his coronation garments into a long, gold-weave tunic, around which was buckled, somewhat incongruously, his war belt and sword. But the contrast brought a cheer from his guests. He was so completely the warrior king, even at the dinner table.

  He made his way past the three central firepits, mounted the platform at the far end of the hall and moved behind the thirty-foot-long high table. Then, flanked by Archbishop Baldwin and the Chief Justiciar, Ranulf Glanville, he bowed to those in the body of the hall. The gesture was not required of him, but it brought a further howl of delight from the assembly. They were in his pocket now, every one of them, and it gave John pause for thought. Richard had either found himself a cunning tutor, or was revealing a hitherto unseen gift for diplomacy. Whichever, he was the darling of the day.

  Pushing down on the pommel of his sword, he settled himself in his chair and looked past Ranulf at his mother. ‘Are you well?’ he asked. Her expression told him she was as well as she had ever been.