The Devil is Loose
Page 11
* * *
In the event, Ranulf Glanville got little for his money. Richard demanded, and received, the incredible sum of 15,000 silver marks, almost enough to pay Henry’s debt. Perhaps to show his disdain for Richard’s merchant-methods, Ranulf paid without demur, then promptly announced his intention to go on Crusade. He would still be justiciar, though he would be unable to administer the office. He, the king might care to note, would both pay for his privileges, and honour his vows.
The courtiers waited to see if Richard would return Ranulf’s money, or rather, how he would manage to keep it. They agreed among themselves that the young king was loath to part with a bent penny, much less 15,000 marks. They also agreed that, if Richard could not find a way round the problem, Eleanor would.
Their faith in her was well-founded. At the next meeting of the Great Council, its members were told to divide the justiciarship between Ranulf and Bishop Hugh of Durham – for which Hugh had paid two thousand marks. It was too onerous a job for one man, Richard explained. It should have been shared out long ago.
The decision was greeted with wry smiles, though there were some who wondered how Richard would fare without his mother to guide him. And that time must come, for she was now sixty-eight years old, more than twice his age.
Having succeeded with Ranulf Glanville and the Bishop of Durham, Richard extended his sale of offices, and summoned all those who had taken the crusading vow. Then he waited for the excuses, and the donations to arrive. King William of Scotland purchased his release for 10,000 marks; a wealthy baron named Godfrey of Luci was granted the shrievalty of Hampshire and the bishopric of Winchester in exchange for 7,000 marks. For Richard it was a dream come true, and he worked day and night, investigating claims, reviving obscure titles, affixing his seal to deeds and charters. He discovered vacancies and filled them, created new posts and elected the applicants, confiscated estates, then sold them piecemeal. Everything had its price and, if the price was met, he was prepared to part with castles and manors, fiefs and concessions, even the rights to hunt and fish on crown lands.
During October and November he became a rich man. He could now pay his father’s debts to King Philip, raise and equip an army, and hire a fleet of one hundred and fourteen ships. He asked Eleanor if he should extend his policy to Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine. ‘England is too small. But if we added our other possessions—’
‘Great God,’ she exclaimed, ‘you do have the mind of a merchant! A few weeks ago you were near destitute, and now your debts are paid and you are able to mount your Crusade. A miracle has occurred, a miracle through greed, perhaps, but nevertheless. Can you not be satisfied with that?’
‘It was a thought,’ he said truculently. ‘It seems pointless to own a stable of horses, and only ride one.’
‘One is enough. Leave Normandy and the others until you need them. The war in the Holy Land may drag on, and you’ll be glad you have fresh destriers at home.’
He was impatient to join Philip and start out for Palestine, but there were a few more important appointments to be made. And the business of Leinster had yet to be settled.
Roger Malchat became the king’s steward, at a price, though he would remain in England.
Fitz Renier continued as Sheriff of London, also for a consideration.
King Henry’s bastard, the grey-haired Geoffrey FitzRoy, was nominated Archbishop of York. Both Eleanor and Richard felt that, by accepting an important position in the Church, Geoffrey’s more regal ambitions would be thwarted.
The final appointment was reserved for one of Richard’s faithful officials, a Norman named William Longchamp. He was a brilliant administrator, and utterly devoted to the Lionheart. But he was also deformed, stunted and dwarfish, unable to speak a dozen words of English, and unwilling to learn. He was contemptuous of the country, its inhabitants and its customs, and never missed an opportunity to say so – in French.
Prince John immediately dubbed him ‘the monkey’, then translated the term for Longchamp’s benefit. Longchamp replied that he, at least, had been deformed by God, whereas John had chosen to cripple himself. After that, nothing would reconcile them.
But Richard remained oblivious to these exchanges, Longchamp was elected Chancellor of England, Bishop of Ely, and custodian of the White Tower. It made him as important a man as the resident justiciar, Hugh of Durham, and it did not help when Longchamp heard Hugh refer to him as le singe nain, the monkey midget.
Longchamp had two sworn enemies, and would make more.
* * *
‘Thirty miles,’ he groaned. ‘She is like a stream when the snow melts. Thirty miles, God judge me, and she never once stopped babbling. Her parents must have shut her away as a child, or forced a gag between her teeth. So, where you or I have had ten years of normal conversation, she has had ten years in which to store up. And what she says is of no great value. “Be gentle with this uncle of mine, he’s an old man, and very frail… Can you name the trees which keep their leaves throughout the winter?… Will you ask the king to send me some lace from Sicily, if he stops there on his way to the Holy Land? I, myself, would ask him, but he intimidates me…” I swear it, leaves and lace and old men, for thirty miles!’
Prince John complaining to a friend about his wife, Hadwisa.
‘In other respects, is she—'
‘No,’ he said. ‘In other respects, she is not.’
Surprisingly, the business of Leinster was settled with the minimum of fuss. No one knew what Eleanor had said to John, but his behaviour was meek and out of character. He was still Lord of Ireland and, as such, Marshal swore fealty to him. But in return, John was required to renounce all direct claim to Leinster. Marshal could not dispose of it without his overlord’s permission, but neither could John give it away to his friends.
The young prince coined another nickname – the dark-skinned Marshal was ‘Saladin’s spy’ – but the childish phrase did not catch on. William Marshal was Earl of Pembroke and Lord of Leinster. And only an idiot would say otherwise.
* * *
On 11th December, Richard Lionheart left England for Normandy, while the English fleet set sail for Marseille. It would take them two weeks to cross the treacherous Bay of Biscay and follow the coastline of Spain. Hopefully, the French fleet would be assembled in Marseille when the English crusaders arrived.
But Richard did not go south to meet them. In early February, 1190, he was joined in Normandy by Queen Eleanor, his brothers John and Geoffrey, and by King Philip’s sister, the pitiable Alais of France.
Alais was no longer a young woman, and it horrified Eleanor to think that the princess had been betrothed to Richard for a quarter of a century. If rumour was to be believed, Alais had been seduced and abused by King Henry, and she had certainly been ignored by Richard. It was a tragic fate for the princess, but Eleanor was determined that Alais and Richard would be wed, if not in France, then in Sicily, or Cyprus, or Jerusalem itself. She would take the woman with her, and they would follow Richard wherever he went. Follow him and haunt him, until he made Alais his queen.
Sister and brother were united, and Philip asked Richard what he intended to do. ‘I am aware that marriage is a serious step, and not to be undertaken in the heat of passion. But twenty-five years, my dear friend, twenty-five years… I shall begin to think you evasive…’
‘There will be a wedding,’ Richard assured him. ‘A few months more, when we have— By the way, I’ve another settlement to make with you. 20,000 marks, and my own present to you, a Damascene sword. Why not use a Moslem blade to cut off Moslem heads, eh?’
Philip sighed, and let Richard’s words wash over him. It was obvious that Coeur-de-Lion was not yet ready for marriage.
The two kings made final preparations for their Great Crusade. They embraced in eternal friendship, vowed to fight shoulder to shoulder, swore to brave together the terrors of Islam and return the city of Jerusalem into the hands of Christendom. Who else could do it, if not they?
Chapter Five
The Monkey
November 1190 – December 1192
The house was now empty, and at the mercy of vandals.
King Richard had gone, and Prince John, and Geoffrey FitzRoy. The last two had sworn to stay out of England for three years, or until Richard returned. But it was unlikely they would keep their word.
Queen Eleanor had gone, taking with her the luckless Alais.
Baldwin of Canterbury and the elderly Ranulf Glanville had gone, intent on honouring their Crusaders’ vows. William Marshal had gone, commanded by Richard to accompany him at least as far as Marseille.
Hadwisa of Gloucester had gone, unwilling to let John out of her sight.
They had all gone, and the house was now left to whim and weather…
* * *
Roger Malchat reread what he had written, shook his head and threw aside the pen. Then, for the third time that morning, he tore the parchment from side to side.
It was no good. The last attempt sounded as weak and plaintive as the others, no more than the whinings of an ill-used servant. Richard would take no notice of it, or assume that it was merely a personal lament. ‘Poor Malchat. The winter in England has lowered his spirits. He sniffs the cold air and scents some kind of persecution. No, it’s not worth a reply. What’s next?’
The steward could imagine that being said, but he dared not make the letter more forceful. What he wanted to say – what half of England wanted to say – would enrage Richard beyond measure.
‘The fault is yours, my lord king, and all blame attaches to you. This dangerous situation would not have arisen had you offered the chancellorship to a reliable man. But you gave it to Longchamp, an evil, overbearing, arrogant, contemptuous—’
That was what he wanted to say, that and more. But Richard was the last man on earth to admit he had made a mistake of such magnitude, and he would probably shower Longchamp with a few more honours – just to show them.
Whenever Malchat was alone in his chambers in Westminster, he warmed his bald head with a green woollen cap. But vanity forbade him to wear it in public, or now, when there were footsteps on the stairs. He snatched it off, rubbed his head to remove the imprint of the wool, and answered Fitz Renier’s recognizable knock.
The sheriff entered, snow on his cloak.
He had often visited his friend in these palace chambers and, since the onset of winter, he had always knocked, entered, then commented on the spartan conditions. Today he pointed at the small, triangular fireplace set in one comer of Malchat’s study, and grumbled, ‘I’ve seen candles give out more heat. You’ll be a dead man before Christmas if you don’t move rooms.’
‘It suits me here. Besides, the cold keeps me alert.’ He saw Fitz Renier gaze quizzically at the sheaf of torn parchment,” and added, ‘In this case it’s not the cold I need, but courage. How do I tell the king that I’m convinced we are veering toward civil war?’
Fitz Renier reached up to release the clasp on his cloak, then thought better of it. ‘Things are not so far gone, are they? If you mean Longchamp, yes, well, he can be contained.’ He helped himself to some wine, then went over to hog the fire. ‘I’ve known men like him before; ambitious upstarts who run power-mad for the first few months. But he’s already achieved what he was after. People say he comes from a peasant family, and that’s made him hungry for power. But his two miserable brothers have both been given shrievalties, the one in Herefordshire, the other in Yorkshire. And the rest of his scabrous family have been accommodated, one way or another, while he, himself, struts about like a Barbary ape. He’s a repulsive little man, but he’s got what he wanted, and he won’t risk losing it. In my opinion, he couldn’t start a hare, let alone a war.’
‘You’d dismiss him so easily?’
‘Ah, I’d like to. I’d like to jab a sword in his arse and see him leap the Channel. But it doesn’t do to take these creatures too seriously, Malchat. They begin to believe in their own importance.’
The steward poured himself a mug of wine, then leaned forward on the littered desk. ‘It’s true what you say, but it’s a partial truth. Yes, his brothers have been given the shires of Hereford and York. But are you aware that their sister, Richenda, now commands Dover Castle? And did you know that Osbert, I think that’s the one, did you know he also stands to gain Norfolk and Suffolk? Or that Longchamp plans to extend and fortify the White Tower, where you once resided?’ He saw Fitz Renier frown, and continued, ‘You were re-elected Sheriff of London, but you no longer have custody of the Tower. So you no longer control the city.’
‘I make myself heard, don’t fret about that.’
‘Yes, you do, and the people like you, but you have lost your castle, that’s what I’m saying.’ He held up a hand, to forestall his friend’s denial. ‘I am King Richard’s steward, but what authority do I wield? None, because Longchamp excludes me from his councils. And as for our resident justiciar, I honestly believe that Hugh is frightened of Longchamp. We are being squeezed out, all of us, and I’m surprised you cannot see it.’
‘Very well,’ Fitz Renier grunted, ‘I admit we’ve lost some ground. But when the others return, John and Geoffrey and Marshal and Ranulf Glanville—’
‘My point,’ Malchat said. ‘When they do return, it will be to find Longchamp in sole command. And do you think they will tolerate that? Geoffrey FitzRoy is to be Archbishop of York; but with one of Longchamp’s kinsmen as his sheriff? Again, can you imagine John acknowledging the monkey as his peer? And how do you suppose Ranulf Glanville will react, when he discovers that Longchamp has virtually usurped his position? I’ll tell you how, if you cannot guess.’
‘Christ’s open tomb, I’m not defending Longchamp! But I have more faith than you in Hugh of Durham. He is the elected justiciar, and he has the power to chain the monkey.’
‘The power, perhaps, but not the persuasion. Have you ever seen them together? Hugh pales when the chancellor is about. His skin actually grows pale. It’s an ugly sight, but not one lost on Longchamp. Mark my words, Fitz Renier. We are in for trouble.’
‘This damn room of yours is so cold I can see my breath. Look at that, and I’m against the fire!’ He came forward to refill his mug, poured some for Malchat, then asked, ‘So what are we to do? If things are as grave as you say, hmm? You and I both have fiefs in the country. Are we to strengthen them, as you claim Longchamp is doing to the Tower?’
‘I have already started,’ Malchat told him.
* * *
To be visited by Chancellor Longchamp was to be reduced to penury overnight. Throughout the winter he toured the southern and eastern counties of England, and it was not unknown for a baron to receive advance warning of his visit, disperse his household, abandon his castle or manor house and flee the district. Longchamp would then come upon the place, to find it cold and deserted. If the baron was lucky, the chancellor would continue on his way, in search of another, more welcoming host.
It was not merely personal dislike that put the barons to flight. Longchamp alone was sufficiently objectionable, but even he would be satisfied with a flagon of wine and a good cut of meat. What terrified them was that, wherever the chancellor went, he was followed by a four-hundred-strong retinue of servants and soldiers. They moved like unseasonal locusts across the country, causing livestock to be slaughtered, foodstores stripped bare, an entire winter’s stock of firewood turned to ash in an evening. Sometimes he repaid the hospitality, but it was never enough. More often, he gave nothing in return, leaving the baron, his family, household and garrison to live like peasants until the autumn harvest. One could tell Longchamp’s whereabouts by the frenzied activity ahead.
* * *
They plunged down the embankment from the Roman road, their horses floundering in the snow-drifts, then swaying upright as their hooves made contact with the frozen fields.
The. Icknield Way stretched east and west into the white fog that shrouded the county. Luckily someone had known where to turn off for the manor, they’d nearly missed it in the fog.
It was Longchamp and his retinue come calling. On Isabel de Clare.
On this occasion, neither Isabel nor her neighbours had been forewarned. They had heard that Longchamp was somewhere to the east, visiting his brother Osbert, but they had expected him to pass well clear of them on his way to London. Unfortunately for Isabel, the chancellor was riding west, not south, heading for his winter court at Oxford. It was even more unfortunate that he possessed such a good memory. Weston in Hertfordshire; a small manor and mill; part of the de Clare inheritance, now under the control of William Marshal. But Marshal was abroad, and the Lady Isabel was God knows where. So the occupants of the manor would not dare deny hospitality to four hundred weary travellers.
The cavalcade trotted across the fields. Startled rabbits ran for the hedgerows, and there was the sharp twang of bowstrings and hiss of ill-aimed arrows. None hit their target, but it was an excuse for the archers to whoop and trade insults. The walls of the manor garden loomed out of the fog. No towers were visible, though the twelve-foot-high boundary was crenellated and looked built to last.
The gateway was open and through it the horsemen could see the house itself, another solid-looking structure made vulnerable by large, ground-floor windows. There was no sign of the mill.
A practised glance told the riders that one hundred or so could be crammed into the manor. The others would have to bed down in the mill, pitch their tents in the garden, invade the nearest village. These overnight halts always presented a problem, but there were always solutions.
They saw figures running back through the gateway and reined-in. Longchamp would play the very devil with anyone who preceded him, so they remained outside the walls. It was a measure of his supreme self-confidence that he could ride in, alone and unprotected, an avowed Anglophobe. And it was a mark of England’s despondency that he was allowed to.