The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  There was no violence at first, though the chatelaine seemed hard put to restrain herself.

  Shrill and excited, she cried, ‘Geoffrey FitzRoy, you are not wanted here. You have broken faith with your brother, the king, and with his chancellor, William Longchamp. The rumour is that you’re bound for York, but we think you are here to claim the crown of England!’

  ‘It would be a tight fit,’ the grey-haired Geoffrey told her, ‘with Richard’s head already in it.’

  ‘Ah, but what if he should die? What if he falls prey to the Moslems, what then?’

  ‘Then I imagine we shall adhere to tradition, and bury him.’

  ‘And you will seize the throne!’

  ‘That has all the cadence of a promise, my lady. I wish I shared your conviction. So I shall seize the throne, eh?’

  ‘You’d like to, but you won’t while Longchamp’s around! He’s the only one whose loyalty stands the test. You won’t get past him, not in a life of trying. He has your measure, don’t think he hasn’t! Oh, yes.’

  ‘How fervent you are, for so early in the morning. I trust you grow more tranquil as the day goes on. Now, I am delighted to be met, Lady Richenda, but the rumour’s true, and it’s a long way to York.’

  He nodded politely to her, then started down the swaying gangplank, the hem of his robe held clear of the water.

  Richenda stared at her guards. She was furious to see that several of them were grinning in Geoffrey’s direction. Adhere to tradition, and bury him. Yes, they’d like that. And admonishing her for her fervour. Hell, it was about time someone told her to be less shrill.

  ‘You seem to forget!’ she snapped. ‘We are here to arrest him, not spend the day on his ship! Get ashore, get after him. Look, burn you, look! He’s taking one of your horses!’ Shouting at him to stop, she ran nimbly down the plank and up the shelving beach. Geoffrey ignored her cries, rammed in his heels and sent the palfrey clattering towards the narrow cliff path.

  One of Richenda’s mounted sergeants spurred forward to head him off, and the two riders collided at the foot of the path.

  ‘Hold up, you. You’ve got business with Longchamp.’

  Geoffrey did not reply in words, but slipped his right foot from the stirrup and lashed out at the sergeant, catching him in the ribs, ft was a clumsy blow, but solid enough to make the man snatch at the saddle, and it gave Geoffrey time to draw clear. Behind him, he could hear Richenda screaming amid the chink of pebbles, and then the path angled up into the cliff, muffling the noise.

  There was, of course, no question of riding to York. The roads would be barred, and the strident chatelaine would soon dispatch her search parties, ft had to be somewhere nearby, somewhere that could offer him sanctuary.

  He reached the clifftop, frowned in an effort to orientate himself, then sent the stolen horse thundering along the road towards the priory of St Martin. The monks there would surely take pity on an Archbishop, even though he was not dressed for the part.

  * * *

  Before noon the soldiers had learned of his whereabouts and ringed the priory. Richenda demanded the fugitive’s surrender, and there were heated exchanges between the chatelaine and the elderly prior. But the courageous old monk refused to part with Geoffrey FitzRoy, unless Geoffrey’s safety could be guaranteed.

  ‘He is the Archbishop of York and, in the eyes of God and the Church, a far greater man than the chancellor. But that is beside the point. We would grant him sanctuary if he were a shepherd, or someone off the ships. If he is guilty of some crime, then he must be brought to trial. But he has told us his story, and I believe it. You wish him harm, Lady Richenda, so I am bound to resist you. Fetch someone who is impartial, and then we’ll see.’

  It was a brave speech, but the prior did not know Longchamp’s sister.

  Frightened to commit her own soldiers, she hired a group of mercenaries and four days later they burst into the priory, discovered Geoffrey at prayer and dragged him from the altar.

  He was kicked and pummelled from the building, and those monks who went to his aid were hurled aside. A horse was brought forward, and he was told to mount up. The prior remonstrated with the invaders, but he, too, was pushed away.

  ‘Don’t meddle, old man. We’re not of your cut, and your threats of damnation don’t work with us. You bleat that this is Geoffrey, Archbishop of York. We say he’s a bastard who cannot even name his mother, and a traitor to England. Now, do you mount up, FitzRoy, or will you sniff the horse’s wind?’

  ‘I am already used to the smell,’ Geoffrey said. ‘It’s been in the air since you came. If you wish to take me out of here, you’ll have to drag me every step of the way.’

  They loved him for resisting, and tethered him behind the palfrey. Then they rode out, while Geoffrey stumbled behind, like a captured slave.

  The barbaric scene was witnessed by farmers on the road and by the inhabitants of Dover. Twenty miles to the northwest lay the cathedral town of Canterbury, a permanent reminder of an earlier martyr, Thomas Becket. It was Geoffrey’s father who had instigated the murder of Becket, and the similarities were ominous. Both men were archbishops. Soldiers had invaded the cathedral then, as they had now invaded the priory. Becket had been dragged from the altar, as had Geoffrey. And Becket had then been struck down…

  The mercenaries hauled their captive through the town and up to the castle. Richenda did not receive him, but waited to hear that he had been flung into one of the dungeons. Then she sent a triumphant message to Longchamp. She knew he would be pleased.

  * * *

  Word reached them that the Crusaders had landed in Palestine and captured the citadel of Acre. However, the victory had been marred by a further quarrel, this time between King Richard and Duke Leopold of Austria. It seemed that Richard had taken exception to the presence of the Austrian standard, claiming that Leopold had played no part in the assault. A squalid tussle had ensued, when Leopold’s banner had been hauled down from the wall and thrown into a ditch. Five days later, the Austrian contingent left the Holy Land…

  * * *

  Had Longchamp been taller and stronger, he would have attacked the messenger. As it was, he made the man repeat Richenda’s message, then screamed at him to get out. The chancellor knew, even then, that he was finished in England, but he could not bring himself to accept it. He had worked too hard for it to end like this. The things he had done for his family, and now, oh, God, what Richenda had done to him! He had never told her to arrest the bastard Geoffrey. Never! Apprehend him, yes. Demand that he swear fealty to Longchamp and King Richard, yes, all that. But to hire bloody brigands… To invade the priory and drag him out… To parade him at a rope’s end, then lock him in some stinking dungeon… Oh, no, it was beyond belief.

  Why not hack him to pieces at the altar and have done with it? Why not, when Geoffrey FitzRoy was already a martyr? Aah, Richenda… Stupid, stupid…

  The net was drawn in by willing hands. All England was united in condemnation of the chancellor, and John immediately summoned the leaders of Church and State. He exuded charm and courtesy, yet remembered to cover his actions with a fine dust of indignation.

  ‘How dare that deformity lay his filthy paws on Geoffrey FitzRoy! He has gone too far now. We have him at our mercy, though he can expect none from me. He must be seized without delay, and my brother released before we have another Becket on our hands. And I advise you to keep us apart, the monkey and I, or there may yet be bloodshed!’

  Eleanor was at Pembroke when she heard of Geoffrey’s capture. She was delighted to see Marshal again, and flattered to discover that Isabel was jealous. The two women got along well enough, though the dowager queen was eventually obliged to take Isabel on one side.

  ‘The advantage of age,’ she said gently, ‘is that one may speak one’s mind with impunity. I can say things to you, my dear Isabel, that you would only dream of saying to me. Here, come and sit down. I’m about to lecture you in your own home.’

  ‘You are
free to say what you like,’ Isabel told her, ‘and this is as much your home, while you are here.’

  ‘You see?’ Eleanor smiled. ‘You obey the dictates of courtesy, and rightly so. But you would rather ask me when I’m leaving, hmm?’

  ‘No, my lady. You will leave when you’re ready. It’s immaterial to me.’

  ‘But there’ll be no pangs of remorse when I go.’

  ‘I shall be sorry, yes, but—’

  ‘—you’ll be glad to have Marshal to yourself again. And, for my part, I shall be glad to leave him with a woman I so much admire. I can think of no one who would have stood up to Longchamp as you did. It sets you apart, among the chatelaines of England.’

  ‘You have disarmed me,’ Isabel said. ‘You’re better at this than I am.’

  ‘I am better at this, my dear, than anyone. But listen to me for a moment. What I have to say will not make you feel less possessive towards Marshal, but it might lessen your suspicions towards me.

  ‘In my life I have borne five sons, of whom all but two are dead. Those two, Richard and John, are beset with problems, and always will be. But they are my sons, and I shall continue to support them.

  ‘However, I am not blindly maternal. King Henry sired a bastard in Geoffrey FitzRoy, and I have often thought Geoffrey more capable than either Richard or John, So, although he is not directly a son of mine, he has Henry’s blood, and perhaps the best of it.’ She smiled again and asked, ‘Do you know where this tale will end?’

  Isabel demurred. ‘You support Geoffrey for his abilities?’

  ‘Yes, I do. And I thwart him for the same reason. In my opinion he should not be king; I am not so selfless as to put the result of my husband’s infidelity before my own true sons. But yes, I find Geoffrey intelligent and resourceful, and so he earns my support. As does a certain William Marshal of Pembroke and Leinster. I have two real sons and a bastard son, so why not an adoptive son?’ She raised her hands in a gesture of self-reproach. ‘Perhaps I am blindly maternal, after all.

  ‘But you must understand this, Isabel. We are not vying for Marshal’s favours. I have known him since he was nineteen. He has known you since you were nineteen. But there is a world of difference, and it’s not to hurt you that I say he holds a special affection for me, and I for him. God knows, there must be some warmth in the room after twenty-five years.’

  They sat quiet for a while, and then Isabel nodded. ‘I understand better, my lady, and I know you need not have troubled to tell me these things.’

  ‘I wished to. But I hope you are not now going to say you will never again be jealous of me. That would be unnatural.’

  ‘No, I shall still be jealous. But less obviously so.’

  ‘Good,’ Eleanor commended, ‘excellent. I shall adopt you as my daughter-in-law.’

  * * *

  The axe fell.

  Longchamp retreated to the White Tower, and remained there until he heard that Geoffrey had been released from prison, and Richenda arrested.

  London was suddenly the stamping ground for prelates and nobles, and John presided over a council of revenge at Westminster. Longchamp was brought into the chamber, where Walter of Coutances presented him with Richard’s second letter.

  In this, the king decreed that the chancellor should be fully obedient to Walter, and accept him as supreme authority in England. Longchamp procrastinated, at first accusing Walter of having forged the letter, then demanding the right to appeal. His mouthings gave John the opportunity to strike, and Walter was told to get on with it and present the final letter.

  It said, quite simply, that since Longchamp had ignored the two previous warnings, he was to be deposed as Chancellor of England. His lands were to be confiscated, and he was to be held for trial. Walter of Coutances was given the authority to redistribute titles and holdings, and immediately dispossessed Longchamp’s brothers and sister. John prowled the chamber, continually warning the barons to restrain him, lest he murder the monkey.

  In the confusion of the meeting, Longchamp managed to escape. He fled to Dover, disguised as a woman, and there suffered the greatest indignities of his career.

  Those servants who had remained loyal to him had succeeded in hiring a fishing boat, and the monkey-turned-woman huddled on the beach, waiting for it to drift inshore. While he waited, a group of fishermen came stamping across the pebbles, slapping their hands against the October weather. They stank of fish and wine and seaweed, and one of them veered across to the woman and thrust his cold hands between her legs. Longchamp’s scream of dismay brought his servants running through the surf.

  The disgusted fishermen recoiled in horror, then decided to warm themselves with a brawl. They beat Longchamp’s men into submission, caught the imitation woman by the skirts and dragged him into town. Witches and warlocks were known to masquerade, so the fishermen were none too gentle with him. He did not help his situation by screaming in French – for all they knew, the language of Satan. Dazed and bleeding, he was thrown into the town dungeon, to await the test of fire, or water.

  Eventually, however, he was identified and, with rare compassion, John allowed him to continue his flight. ‘If he’s brought back here,’ the prince threatened, ‘I shall kill him! Better he should seek some warmer clime, and be chancellor over the monkeys.’"

  Geoffrey FitzRoy was free by then, and embarrassed by his half-brother’s pageant of affection. He had always thought John cunning and selfish, and was bemused by this sudden display of fraternal devotion. Nevertheless, he sustained himself in the knowledge that, whenever the prince hugged and kissed and comforted, it was time to beware. In that, at least, he was reliable, was brother John.

  Chapter Six

  King’s Ransom

  September 1192 – December 1193

  The date by the Moslem calendar was 22nd Shaban, 588 AH, reckoning the years from the Hegira, the Exile, when the prophet Mohammed had fled from his persecutors in Mecca. By the Christian calendar it was Wednesday, 2nd September, 1192.

  The Great Crusade, the Moslem Jihad, their Holy War, was over. King Richard lay wasted by fever, imploring his commanders to let him return to England. He had reached the Holy Land on 8th June, 1191, and in the subsequent fifteen months the Crusaders had captured Acre, Tyre, Caesarea, Haifa, Arsuf, Ascalon-all the coastal strongholds. But they had not reclaimed Jerusalem, nor did they hold much more than a three-mile-wide coastal strip.

  There had been magnificent victories and, at one time or another, the Frankish kingdom had been visited by four kings, four queens, and legions of the nobility. But the might of the West had been weakened by disease and by the strange climate in which the heat of the day blistered the flesh, and the cold of the night cracked stones. Men lost hair from their heads and groins, and those Frankish overlords who had settled in Palestine were afflicted by impotence.

  But this was not the end of it, for the West brought its own contagions. They were vain men, hungry for power, jealous of their position. Intrigue was as necessary to them as bread and water, and their vices blossomed in the arid air. The Emperor of Germany, the red-bearded Frederick Barbarossa, had been drowned on his way to Palestine. King Philip of France had arrived, stayed less than four months, then departed. Duke Leopold of Austria had withdrawn in high dudgeon as a result of his squabble with Richard, and it had been left to the King of England to rally the remaining Crusaders.

  In June, 1192, Richard had led a small group of horsemen to within sight of Jerusalem. But he, himself, had refused to look at the walls and minarets and the great, golden Dome of the Rock. His army was exhausted, and he knew there was now no hope of taking the city. Weeping openly, he told the riders, ‘It is sufficient torture to have come this close. I do not care to view something I can never have.’

  A few weeks later he was smitten with fever, and he now lay in the damp citadel of Jaffa, pleading to be absolved from his vows.

  ‘You may go,’ the barons told him, ‘when we have something to show for our labours. Sign t
he treaty that Sultan Saladin proposes, then we can all go home. Christ knows, most of the soldiers have already deserted us.’

  It was not as the Lionheart had envisaged. England had been bled white in order to finance the Crusade. Saladin still held sway over the vast Arab empire, and the Moslems had lost nothing but a hundred miles of coastline. Philip Augustus was back in France, and it was rumoured that, in exchange for Normandy, he would help John secure the English throne. Then, together, they would turn against Richard.

  ‘Fetch their emissaries,’ he mumbled. ‘Warm the sealing wax. Let’s get it done with.’

  * * *

  The soft-spoken sultan regarded it as a very generous settlement. The truce was to last for three years, and the Unbelievers were to be allowed to keep their coastal gains. Moreover, their pilgrims were permitted access to the Christian church in Jerusalem, and to Christ’s birthplace at Nazareth. The Moslems would scarcely notice their presence in the Holy Land. And, if they broke the treaty, it would be simple enough to tip them all into the sea…

  * * *

  Des Roches had lost none of his bulk. The thick-set knight who had helped Marshal defend the bridge near Le Mans had survived the rigours of a Norman winter and a Syrian summer, and had not taken in his belt by a single notch. There were more scars on his face – the results of a Saracen ambush near Caesarea – and his sight was impaired by a cataract in his left eye. The eye had become filmy and for some reason the eyelid drooped, as if to hide the infirmity. It gave des Roches a sinister appearance, and an air of even greater authority. The right eye was opened wider, seeing what the left could no longer see. Those who had been educated were reminded of the Cyclops, the one-eyed giants who had once inhabited the volcanoes of Sicily. Others merely saw him as a big-bellied knight who would finish any trouble that was started.