Swathed in a heavy sheepskin cloak and perched on his high horse, he entered the garden. All those who had retreated through the gate had disappeared, and there were no watch- guards on the walls. He peered round at the bushes and outbuildings, shrugged at the craven nature of the English, and made his way towards the house.
When he reached the centre of the garden, a young woman emerged from the manor. Longchamp pulled the reins against his malformed chest and waited for the servant to approach. But she remained beside the door, her head covered with a fur-lined hood.
The chancellor hesitated, then called to her in French. ‘Come here, girl. I am William Longchamp, Chancellor of England. Take my horse, or fetch one of the ostlers, don’t hang back. Who’s your master here, in the absence of Earl Marshal? Well? Speak out, girl, your tongue won’t freeze.’
But the woman did not reply, or signify that she had understood.
In English now, and aided by a dumb-show, the exasperated chancellor shouted, ‘William Longchamp… Me… The Chancellor of England… Yes?… Trap the horse… Come, come, come!’
The young woman drew the hood closer around her face. She said nothing, forcing Longchamp to urge the palfrey forward. Bon Dieu, they grow more stupid every day. What am I to find here, that they are all deaf as well as ignorant?
Worried that he might lead the animal on to a frozen pond, he kept to the centre of the garden, following what he hoped was the path. Gusts of wind brought more snow into the enclosure, and he slapped irritably at the neck of his cloak. He’d stayed up late with brother Osbert, and he was now cold and tired and in need of a good meal. The journey had been bad enough, without this.
He reined-in, removed the bird’s-bill cap he wore when travelling and pointed the long peak at his chest. ‘The-Chancellor-of-England… You come the, ah— You bring the— le seneschal, yes?’
In French, and with a better accent than his own, Isabel said, ‘We have no seneschal, my lord chancellor, and I do not take the horses.’
Longchamp glared at her. ‘I see. So you do understand. Then through what impertinence did you ignore me when I addressed you before?’
‘You did not address me, my lord. I am Isabel de Clare, whom you mistook for a servant. So you ignored me.’
Long service with Richard Lionheart had taught the chancellor that anger was often a good disguise for embarrassment. ‘I don’t have the eyes of a hawk, you know. In this weather… If you huddle so coyly in the doorway… Besides, I had no reason to believe you were here.’
‘Nor to believe I was not.’
‘Even so, you should have come to greet me.’
‘Oh? Why’s that, my lord? I had no reason to believe you would visit us. Besides, you thought I was a servant; when you rode through the gate, I thought, well, this is gypsy country.’
He knew she was lying – he’d seen the members of her household run back to warn her of the cavalcade – but worse, she knew he had seen them, and was unrepentant. She was being too audacious, this pretty little vixen. She had learned French better than she had learned her manners.
He heard a sudden creak and a crash, and twisted in the saddle. The solid garden gates had been shut, and four men were lowering a heavy bar in place. Even now, it did not occur to Longchamp that he might have ridden into a trap, but he turned back to howl at Isabel, ‘What is this? I never saw those men! I want the gates opened!’
She had to decide then whether or not to go on with it. Two months earlier, she had written to Marshal, asking what she should do if Longchamp and his retinue ever visited their lands. She would abide by Marshal’s wishes, and relay them to every constable and seneschal in their employ.
His answer had been immediate and unequivocal.
‘Those men?’ she shrugged. ‘Gardens need gardeners, my lord, even in winter. They have been out there most of the day. And they close the gates in the evening; it’s a common habit. Now, will you dine with us? That was, I imagine, the purpose of your visit. Well, it could hardly have been otherwise, could it, since you did not know I was here? So far as I’m aware, this humble manor has never been honoured by such an important guest, perhaps because it is so out of the way. Had we been nearer London, we could doubtless have expected you more often. But isolation is the price we must—’ She stopped abruptly. She had made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm, and he suddenly realized she had been holding his attention for a reason. The four men who had closed the gates were now grouped around the horse.
He stared down at them and felt the first tremor of fear. The woman had insisted that they were gardeners, but they were all young and deep-chested. They might have been gardeners, and they might have been working with the hoes and picks they carried like weapons. It might have been one of their duties to seal off the garden, though they had done that with the ease of the vanished wall-guards. And they might also be waiting to take his horse, rather than his life.
It seemed to depend upon Longchamp.
He directed his uncertain gaze at Isabel. ‘I do not like the manner of this greeting, Lady de Clare. You invited me to dine with you, yet you shut out my companions.’
‘No man has that many friends, my lord chancellor. Not even you. And they are not shut out, for they never tried to come in.’
‘But apparently you will not feed them.’
‘I will not starve my household for months to come, I’d put it that way. You are welcome to eat, I’ve said so, you and any twenty of your – companions. But, as the chatelaine of Weston, I don’t give banquets in mid-winter. If I did, well, as I told you, the countryside is full of hungry gypsies.’ Longchamp nodded. This had never happened to him before. The houses in his path were either abandoned, or their occupants resigned to his visit. No one had had the temerity to number the plates.
Nevertheless, he would forgive her insolence. She was an ill-mannered cub, and too free with her tongue, but he would offer her one last chance to redeem herself. He would present her with a simple choice, aware that it was, in fact, no choice at all.
‘So, you put your household, even your gypsies, before servants of the Crown. Very well. If you will not feed my companions, you will not feed me. But I am sure you would not deny succour to the Chancellor of England.’
Isabel looked up at him, then brushed snow from her face. ‘One moment,’ she murmured, ‘I’ll have the gates opened—’
‘Yes, that’s better.’
‘—then you will be able to leave.’
The group remained silent, while the white flakes eddied around them. Then Longchamp let his twisted body sag in the saddle as he leaned towards Isabel. She braced herself for, his anger, but she was unprepared for the intensity of his scream.
‘Stupid! Stupid! You are the only one, you stupid— Do you think you have gained anything? – you haven’t, you stupid salope! Catin! God see me —the Arab will find nothing! Espece d’ordure, you think you’ve won, oh, no, but what you have lost! There’ll be nothing left for him when he comes! Nothing! Ils seront deserts, ses fiefs!’
He felt a hard object drawn along his calf, and lurched sideways to discover that his right boot had been slit from rim to ankle. His skin was untouched, but the snow was already exploring the crack. The gardeners gazed at him impassively, paying no heed to the uproar that came from beyond the gates. Then one of the men reached up and caught hold of the bridle, while the others walked back through the garden to lift the heavy beam. Isabel turned away, sickened by his words, and by the spittle that had flown from his lips. Her maidservant ran from the manor to guide her indoors.
* * *
Within a matter of days, the vast territories of Pembroke and Striguil had been made ready for war. The scores of scattered manors, similar to Weston, were also on the alert. Word had been sent to Leinster, and Marshal’s commanders there kept watch for Longchamp’s invasion. No one doubted that he would implement his threat to make a wilderness of the fiefs.
He had not stayed to attack the manor at Weston, but had forc
ed his retinue to follow him through the night on a bleak, fifty-mile journey to Oxford. His fury was so great that his fine Norman palfrey had to be put to death en route, its flanks slashed to ribbons by his spurs.
Had he wished to suppress the story of his eviction, he might have razed Weston, slain its inhabitants, and sworn his followers to secrecy. But he could not have silenced four hundred tongues, nor prevented Isabel’s neighbours from witnessing the massacre. So, varied accounts of the incident spread throughout the country and across the Channel. Some told of how the duly-elected chancellor had been lured into a trap, fought his way clear and laughed in the face of de Clare’s vile curses. Others spoke of the lady’s extraordinary courage, and festooned the tale with romantic trappings. In these Isabel was depicted as all in white, a vision in the snow, sternly dismissing the cringing upstart.
… She had come forward to kiss him, but had stabbed him instead… He had made revolting overtures to her, slinking crabwise through the fog… She had bewitched his horse, causing the noble beast to topple over on the road… He had sucked blood from his lips, and spat it in her face…
There were enough stories to satisfy everyone, and make them reach for their swords.
* * *
With the departure of the crusading fleets, and particularly King Richard, his brothers had hurried north from Marseille. They had both vowed to remain on that side of the Channel, but had had no intention of doing so. Deeply suspicious of each other, they had gone their separate ways, John to his Norman fief of Mortain, Geoffrey to stay with friends at Tours. They had heard of Longchamp’s activities with increasing concern, and had daily grown more restless.
By December, John decided it was safe to move. King Richard was at Messina, in Sicily, his face turned towards the Holy Land. And even if he did look over his shoulder, surely he would not recognize his brother from a distance of one thousand miles?
But one could never be too careful, so John and Hadwisa left Mortain under cover of dark.
* * *
Marshal was also at Messina, and it was there that he heard the news of Longchamp’s eviction. Fortunately, it was a balanced account, and soon followed by Isabel’s own version of the incident. He immediately sought King Richard’s permission to return to England.
‘I’ve heard the stories,’ Richard dismissed. ‘They’re pure invention. Chancellor Longchamp is a fine administrator. He’s not the kind to parade about at the head of an army. Someone is sowing dissension. If I do let you go, it will be to discover who it is.’
‘May I ask something? How many times have you heard these-what you call inventions?’
‘How many times a day do I draw breath?’
‘Exactly. Times beyond number. And so have I. Every messenger speaks of Longchamp’s arrogance, of the way he has advanced his family, and always of his locust army.’
With a dangerous spacing of his words, Richard said, ‘Let me be clear. Do you say my appointee is at fault? That I am at fault for having put him there? Just what do you say, Marshal?’
‘That there’s an ominous consistency to the stories, and that I wish to see things for myself and protect what is mine. My wife tells me she is under threat – what was Longchamp’s phrase? – that he would make a wilderness of my lands. I believe what she says. What I am not so sure about, lord king, is whose words you would take. Whatever the situation in England, I shall send you as fair a report as I can manage. I hope it will be of value to you, or will you discard it as yet another invention?’
‘Do you know,’ Richard warned, ‘you have become quite the bull since we ennobled you? If anyone could hear us now, they’d be hard put to say which of us was king. Send your report, and leave it at that! If I read it, then it’s read. If not, send another. And if the trusted William Longchamp does lead an army, he’ll have good reason for it. That man served me in Aquitaine and Anjou and Normandy, so why not in England?’
‘No one says he is not serving you. What’s said is that he’s cutting too thick a slice for himself, and depriving others. Now, my lord, do I have your permission—’
‘Yes, go!’ He let Marshal reach the door before calling after him. ‘God’s legs, you’re a quarrelsome man, Earl Marshal.’
‘I? Oh, yes,’ he replied straight-faced, ‘I love a dispute.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Richard insisted. ‘Leastwise, not between friends.’
Marshal nodded. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ He paused, then asked, ‘Is that why you recalled me?’
‘Not entirely. I want you to wish me God speed. I may be away from you for a year or more, who knows? And you’re wrong, I do respect your word. I have a real affection for you, Marshal. You could be warmer towards me sometimes, but—’ He lifted his shoulders and grinned, his expression unusually sensitive. He was the boyish gambler who had ignored good advice and put his pennies on the wrong horse; the swain who is once again refused admission to the lady’s house, and told to wait in the street.
‘I will read your reports, if I can find the time, though I’m out to slay God’s enemies, not go blind over paperwork.’
With characteristic vanity he extended a hand for Marshal to kiss. Then, with a display of emotion that was equally a part of his nature, he abandoned formality and clasped Marshal in an embrace.
‘God speed,’ Marshal said. ‘He will make you triumphant. We’ll hear that Jerusalem is ours again by summer.’
‘And that not a single Moslem is left! You’ll learn of my victories soon enough. I’ll herd those pigs into— well, whatever is beyond their lands. Deus Vult! That is our cry. And Coeur-de-Lion!’
Still held in the king’s embrace, Marshal allowed himself a brief smile. No one but Richard would think to put forward his own name, as an alternative to God.
* * *
That winter was one of the most severe in living memory, and Longchamp was unable to make good his threat. Many of his ships were frozen to their moorings, and it would, anyway, have been suicidal to attempt an invasion across the Irish Sea. So Leinster remained safe, as did the snowed-in fastnesses of Pembroke. Even the Roman roads became impassable, and there was never enough food available to feed the army. Marshal’s English castles remained the most likely targets, but Longchamp acknowledged that in order to reduce them he would need the help of scaling towers, catapults and rams. He told his military architects to design sledges, capable of bearing the weight of the great mangonels and belfries. They did their best, but the idea was abandoned when they convinced him that at least fifty oxen would be needed to draw each sledge-borne tower.
Thwarted by the weather, the chancellor continued to pit his authority against the resident justiciar, Hugh of Durham. Hugh had always been stronger in the north of England than the south, a situation that was to Longchamp’s liking. London, Winchester and Oxford were the real centres of government, and the crookback chancellor scurried between them, holding councils, and issuing edicts, his feet rattling, as someone remarked, in a pair of Richard’s cast-off boots.
* * *
Isabel de Clare had moved from the manor at Weston to her impregnable castle at Pembroke. She spent a cheerless Christmas without her husband, though she had heard that he was on his way from Sicily. She prayed for his safe return, and spent much of her time at the window, for she knew he would not be with her until the new year. But it gave her pleasure, and there was little else to do.
The festival was made more sombre by news of the deaths of both Ranulf Glanville and Archbishop Baldwin. These elderly Crusaders had succumbed to the heat and aridity of the East, though they had reached the Holy Land, honouring their vows, and that was something.
She lit four candles on Christmas night, a tall, translucent offering in celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and three smaller waxes for Ranulf and Baldwin and Marshal. She expected no reward for her piety, but three days later she was accosted by one of her guards, who told her there was a drunkard in the bailey.
‘He says, well, it may be a bad j
oke, my lady, in which case he’ll get his deserts, but he says he is King Richard’s steward. Claims he’s travelled across England, right through the snow, to be with you, and he brings presents and greetings from Fitz Randolph.’
‘Fitz Randolph? Do you mean Fitz Renier?’
‘That could be what he said. It’s difficult to know. There’s three men holding him up.’
Her smile widened, and she asked if the visitor was bald; well-fleshed and bald.
‘Again, my lady, he could be, but he’s buried in cloaks and his head’s covered by a woollen cap. I wouldn’t trouble you with him, except he insists he’s the king’s steward.’
‘Treat him like glass,’ Isabel said. ‘I think he is.’
‘Masshat,’ the guard murmured, ‘something like that.’
‘Malchat. Roger Malchat. That’s him. And in heaven’s name forget his cap. He believes it’s his secret. No, on second thoughts, mention it to him. Discreetly. He’s probably forgotten to remove it.’
She then changed into her finest gown, doused herself with perfume and clanked beneath the weight of jewellery. If Malchat was too drunk to see or smell, no matter. His visit was well-meant, and he was welcome. He had traversed an entire country to be with her, so he had earned his drink.
* * *
In the middle of January, 1191, Marshal reached England and joined his wife at Pembroke. A few days later, John and Hadwisa stepped ashore, and immediately rallied their supporters in the West Country. The young prince summoned his own councils, elected his own chancellor and issued his own decrees. With Hugh in the north, Longchamp in the south-east and John in the southwest, England was a ship with three captains. The situation had to be resolved, and there were only two men who could do so; the ailing Pope Clement III, and the crusading King Richard.
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