Longchamp was aware of the promise Richard had extracted from his brothers, but he did not dare move against John. The prince now controlled the bordering counties of Cornwall, Devon, Somerset, Dorset and Gloucester, and he had been enthusiastically received by the people. It never occurred to Longchamp that his own unpopularity was the main reason for John’s new-found favour. The people had thought the prince selfish and lecherous, but what was he, beside that venomous Norman upstart? Just a twenty-three-year-old, seeking a young man’s amusements. Yes, they had been rather harsh on him, come to think of it. John was irresponsible, but that was all. He was not evil, like the crippled monkey. He was in need of guidance, whereas Longchamp was in need of a dripping throat, or a nice tight noose.
Nor did the chancellor attempt an all-out assault on Marshal, though he repeated his threat like a litany. He would have his revenge, when the time was right. Pembroke would be a desert, Leinster a playground for carrion crows. You will know Marshal’s castles, he predicted, by the flatness of the ground…
Instead of violence, a war of letters ensued. Each of the protagonists appealed to the Pope and to Richard, and the English courts were treated to the near-comical sight of Longchamp, waving a letter of authority, only to have Hugh of Durham produce another, with a more recent date. A week later, the chancellor would be back with a fresh mandate, superseding Hugh’s.
The appeals and justifications continued until March, and then the humour of the situation was quite lost on the counsellors. Limping into the chamber at Westminster, the chancellor took his place at the head of the table and let his hooded gaze slide from face to face.
‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that you have tied your futures to me. I don’t know your innermost thoughts – do the English have them? – but I would advise you to despair of John. He should not even be in this country. He dishonoured his vow to Richard, and that may show you the measure of the man. But he is here, and I shall not start a civil war to drive him out. As for Hugh, wherever he is, you may also despair of him. As from today, he wields no power in this land. He is no longer papal legate, so the Church need not answer to him. Nor is he anything more than justiciar-in-name. His power here is— terminated.’
He waited for the murmurs of surprise and disbelief to die away, then used his less twisted hand to lay a heavy leather wallet on the table. From it he produced two letters, prolonged the tension by lifting first one, then the other, then raised the first again and said, ‘Church before State, I think. I shall recite each letter in turn, and later they will be available to you. The date on this is 3rd February. The seal is that of the Lateran Council, serving the Pope. The name above the seal is, of course, Pope Clement’s. Now, let’s see, how does it go?’
It went very well for Longchamp, as he knew it would, since he had read both letters several times before.
‘Pope Clement, to William Longchamp, Bishop of Ely and Chancellor of England; greetings. We are happy to abide by and comply with the wishes of our dear son under God, the blameless and heroic Richard, King of England, who pleads with us to confer upon you, William Longchamp, the authority of the Church, and to charge you to represent the Church in England and bear the title of papal legate.
‘Such authority will also extend to Wales, and to those regions of Ireland over which our dear son under God, the brave and noble Prince John holds sway and jurisdiction.
‘This seal is given under our hand…
‘…and so on and so on.’ He let the parchment fall. ‘High-flown language, though I’m sure you can unravel the meaning. If not, I’ll make it plain. I am the head of the Church now. It will be my duty to appoint God’s senior servants and to control the sale and purchase of ecclesiastical lands. And with any luck the prelates will learn some French.’
He might as well have said that he had inherited half the wealth and property of England, for it was true.
The counsellors stared at him, unable to reconcile the dwarfish foreigner with the news he had imparted. Longchamp as legate? Oh, no; oh, no. Chancellor, yes, they could accept him as that. And even as Bishop of Ely. But not as supreme head of—
‘It has been a good day for letters. Here’s the other. Written a week earlier, though it had farther to come, 27th January, and King Richard’s seal. He was still in Sicily then. By now he is probably on his way again. He writes in French, of course.’
Though nobody had stirred, Longchamp could not resist adding, ‘A translation has been made, for those of you who…’ and left it at that.
‘Richard, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Anjou, to William Longchamp and all my loyal subjects; greetings.
‘We decree and command all those who love us and are faithful to us to be obedient to our trusted chancellor, as you would be to ourselves.
‘We expect you to serve him in everything, and do whatever he tells you in our name, and be wholly loyal to him, so earning our love.
‘Witnessed by myself at Messina…
‘… and then the date and so forth.’ The letter fell beside the other. Longchamp stirred the sheets with a finger. ‘Self- explanatory,’ he said. ‘The translation is merely a courtesy. But you see what I mean when I tell you to despair of John and Hugh. It’s put plain enough in the king’s own hand. Obedience… Service in everything… Your whole loyalty…’ He let his triumphant gaze tour the council. ‘Cela saute aux yeux, n’est-ce pas? It makes your eyes come wide, no?’
* * *
Word reached them that Richard and Philip had quarrelled again about the wretched Alais of France. Queen Eleanor had followed her son to Sicily, as she had promised, though the young woman who accompanied her was not Alais, but the Princess Berengaria of Navarre. Eleanor found it necessary to remind Richard that he had met Berengaria in Spain, some years earlier, and had been taken with her.
‘You wrote poems and dedicated them to her. You even set them to music; you were always good at songs.’
‘Did I? Well, I wouldn’t do it now. Look at her, mother. She’s so passive, so – matronly.’
Near desperation, Eleanor said, ‘She is a fine, attractive woman. And she adores you.’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t control the tide. All of us adore things we cannot have.’
They were on the waterfront at Messina, and the wind was lifting the spray. Eleanor raised the hood of her travelling cloak and turned her back on the sea. ‘Things,’ she queried, ‘or people? I had hoped to avoid this, my sweet, but the French seem much amused by your antics with Philip. They say you won’t leave him alone. Is there anything in that?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do. I think you know precisely what I mean. Are you enamoured of him, Richard? Is that why you resurrect old quarrels, in order to be with him?’
‘He’s a cold fish, and the French are anyway notorious liars. I’m saddened that you would take their word against mine. They are the ones who are stirring the pot, not me. Enamoured of Philip? That’s plain madness. I don’t even like the man. He’s a cold fish, did I say that? Well, he is, and I’d no more think of – befriending him, than—’
‘Very well, that will do.’ She put a hand on his arm. There was no point in continuing the discussion. She had her answer. King was quite clearly in love with king.
‘I want you to visit Berengaria,’ she told him. ‘The princess has just ended a sea voyage, so you cannot expect her to look her best. I’m sure I don’t.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he insisted, ‘you do. Nothing impairs your looks. I would not mind if Berengaria was your mirror image. I could get on with her then.’
Yes, Eleanor thought, that’s the tragedy of it.
Nevertheless, he agreed to meet his intended bride, and they hurried from the windswept quay.
The queen felt very sorry for Alais, finally discarded by the family who had brought her so much misery. But Eleanor was determined that Richard should marry and sire a son. Berengaria was young and, as he had so callously remarked, matronly. She wo
uld make an ideal mother, if only Richard could be enticed into her bed.
Eleanor stayed in Messina until she had wrung from her son the promise of marriage. She was shrewd enough to offer something in exchange, and assured him she would safeguard his interests in England.
‘There’ll be a deep layer of dust on your throne when you return, sweet. I’ll see that no one tests it for comfort.’
She had spoken to him of other things and, as a result, she was accompanied homeward by the gentle and unassuming Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen. In his purse he carried three letters, all bearing the king’s seal. Eleanor was satisfied with their contents, for she had helped Richard compose them.
* * *
Now firmly established as head of Church and State in England, Longchamp twitched his muscles. Ranulf Glanville was dead. Hugh of Durham had faded into the shadows. John glared from a distance, but was powerless to act. Marshal was chained to his own lands, waiting for the attack that might or might not come. The Council at Westminster were a mere chorus, chanting Longchamp’s songs.
Opposition to the chancellor centred around John, though the disaffected barons were still faced with the same problem; how to remove the Norman upstart without pitching the country into civil war? If that happened, and Richard learned it was at his brother’s behest –
John winced at the thought. He had done well out of Richard, and he knew from experience that the Lionheart set him apart from other men. It was poor John, stupid John, John-led-easy. But this was not the mill-house at Sablé-sur-Sarthe, and Richard would not shrug off the destruction of his kingdom.
Nevertheless, he pondered the problem, often staying up late to plan assassination attempts with his supporters. Safe in one of his West Country strongholds, John paced the room, hand on head, his bejewelled rings sparkling like an imitation crown. ‘It can be done. If we perfect the method. If we learn where he’ll be, and when, and if we can somehow draw off his bodyguards. How many does he have these days?’
His old friend Belcourt said, ‘I saw him in Oxford not long ago. He had thirty men with him then, though they were each as huge as your brother. He calls them his Goliaths.’
John sighed and straddled one of the benches. ‘It can be done,’ he said listlessly. ‘We’ll dig a hole in the street and line it with sharp stakes, I don’t know, but there must be a way.’ The ideas became more fanciful, and they discussed hiding on a house-top, then dropping a rock on him as he passed beneath. Or nailing shut the doors of the Council chamber and setting fire to it when he was inside. Or finding out who supplied his wine, and poisoning the entire stock. Or sending to Aquitaine for a box of scorpions.
They did not once suggest that John should seek an audience with the chancellor, then step forward, draw his sword, and plunge it into Longchamp’s heart. After all, the topic was assassination, not suicide.
* * *
Word reached them that Richard and Berengaria had sailed to Cyprus where they had been married in the Cathedral at Limassol. Two hours after the ceremony the newly-wed king had ridden off to pursue some private feud with the Cypriot Emperor.
* * *
‘Or,’ John said, ‘we could wait until he goes hunting, then set a trip-string in the forest. If we knew in which direction he was headed, we could get there first and either set some snares on the ground, or tie a thin cord between the trees. His horse would step into the loop, or stumble over the cord and come down, hopefully on top of the vermin. If he wasn’t crushed by the weight of the animal, he’d break his neck on a tree, or be blinded by a thorn bush. And we’d dress in green, so they’d never find us in the forest. How’s that?’
‘He doesn’t hunt,’ Belcourt said.
* * *
Hadwisa was growing tired of her husband’s nocturnal schemings. She knew they would never amount to anything, and that John would no more attempt to assassinate Longchamp than he would murder King Richard and seize the throne. It lifted her husband’s spirits and lessened his feelings of guilt, but it also interrupted her sleep.
He came into the bedchamber in his high-heeled boots, muttered an apology as Hadwisa raised herself against the carved headboard, then grunted when she asked how the plans were progressing.
‘What did you cook up tonight, my lord, a tunnel into his rooms?’
‘Make light of it if you wish, but someone has to work for his downfall.’
‘Why not leave it to him?’
He had drunk too much, had his best ideas rejected, and was in no mood for her levity. ‘Look,’ he snapped, ‘I know I have intruded on your sleep, but—’
‘I wasn’t asleep. I also have a plan. I thought you might care to hear it.’
He rammed a toe against a heel, and one boot crashed to the floor. ‘You’re wonderfully loyal,’ he yawned, ‘but you cannot understand the situation.’
‘Humour me,’ she said. ‘Pretend I can. I don’t have the mind of a skilled strategist, and I am not adept at late-night tactics—’
‘Very well, say your say.’ He rid himself of the other boot, then turned to face her, patient and long-suffering. He supposed all wives were the same, pathetically eager to help.
‘You want Longchamp destroyed, but you have no wish to die, yourself. Is that right?’
‘Brutally put, but yes, close enough.’
‘Then let him destroy himself, my lord. You remember the vow you made to your brother, to stay out of England?’
‘It was convenient to do so at the time. I doubt if he took it seriously.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t ask you to justify if, I ask you to recall it. You made the vow, and, for whatever reasons, chose to ignore it. So we came from Mortain to England.’
His belt thudded on to the planks. ‘I know my life story better than most. I know where we came from.’
Undeterred, Hadwisa continued, ‘But Longchamp did not move against you. He knew you should not be here, but you were, and are, too strong for him. My question is, how would he react if Geoffrey FitzRoy came over? If, say, someone wrote to Geoffrey, suggesting that his Archbishopric of York was in danger, and that it was imperative that he spring to its defence. Do you follow me?’
‘And Longchamp had him arrested! He’d do that, he said he would!’
‘You follow me. But it would make the chancellor even more unpopular, laying hands on a senior prelate, whose only wish was to continue in God’s service, And you would be most indignant, would you not? The brother you love so deeply, seized like a common felon?’
Hadwisa had snuffed all but one of the candles, so John was forced to lean forward and peer at her. He could not believe that this was the same woman who spent her days prattling about flowers and foodstuffs, needlework and the niceties of backgammon. He felt that perhaps he had underestimated her.
‘Yes,’ he nodded defiantly. ‘If that stinking creature laid a finger on my brother, I’d raise all England against him! How did you think of it?’
‘Long, quiet nights,’ she said acidly, ‘alone, and in the dark.’
* * *
Eleanor and Walter of Coutances reached England and separated at the port. The elderly queen turned westward, anxious to see John and Marshal, while Walter went in search of Longchamp.
He found the chancellor at Oxford, and attempted to deliver the first of Richard’s letters. But Longchamp did not acknowledge him, and kept him waiting several days. Then when Walter was finally granted an audience, in the first week of August, the chancellor treated him like a hired messenger.
Speaking of him as though he were not in the room, Longchamp said, ‘He’s brought a letter from the king, is that what he says?’
‘I have,’ Walter replied, ‘and I am over here, quite visible.’
‘Give it to me then.’
‘It’s to be read aloud.’
‘Surely I should decide whether—’
‘By me.’ He prised off the seal and read:
‘Richard, King of England, Duke of Normandy and Anjo
u, Defender of Sicily, to William Longchamp; greetings.
‘We do charge you to welcome and cherish our revered Archbishop Walter of Coutances, and henceforth to seek his advice in all matters of government.
‘He is experienced in the affairs of England, and will do much to lighten your burden. Care for him as you would for us, and pray that we may be victorious and return to you soon.
‘Witnessed by myself at Messina.’
Without a word, Longchamp stretched out a hand for the letter. Then, still silent, he ripped it to shreds and stamped on the scraps that fluttered underfoot.
Matching silence with silence, Walter withdrew from the chamber, left the palace and set out westward to rejoin Eleanor. He was well-pleased with the reception, though he did not stop trembling until he was ten miles on.
* * *
They had been waiting for him for two weeks. All along the southeast coast, Longchamp’s men kept watch for his ship. They did not know which route he would take, or where he would land, only that he was coming. And when he came, Bon Dieu, he would find the reception tougher than the crossing.
As it transpired, he stepped ashore at the worst possible place, beneath the cliffs and castle of Dover. This was the fortress that Longchamp had given to his most zealous supporter, his sister Richenda. She had prayed that Geoffrey FitzRoy would land there, so that she might repay her brother’s generosity, and had insisted on taking her turn as watch-guard. She was bitterly disappointed that she, herself, had not sighted his ship, but she was one of the first on to the beach.
He did not see them until the vessel was close inshore, and by then it was too late. The fight craft grated on the pebbles, and was immediately boarded by Richenda and her men-at- arms.
The Devil is Loose Page 13