And that was how the gate guards of Pembroke saw him as they escorted him into the dark snow-covered bailey.
He sheltered in the guard-house while one of the men tramped up the torchlit steps and into the keep. Soldiers who had ended their watch, or were waiting to go on, huddled around the banked fire, or sent dice clattering across the communal table. Des Roches leaned against the wall, studying the faces to see if there was anyone he recognized. Anyone would do, for he only wanted an excuse to tell them it was colder where he’d come from.
But one glance at their gigantic visitor had been enough and they kept their eyes averted. They hoped that Earl Marshal would receive the monster, whoever he was, for it’d be a damn difficult job to throw him out.
There was a roar from the yard. ‘Des Roches! William des Roches!’
Now the guards did look up, saw their visitor respond and clamoured their greetings. So that’s who he was! Someone slopped wine into a mug and pressed it to him, while others straightened their tunics, or surreptitiously buffed their helmets on the hem of their cloaks. Not a month went by without Marshal making some mention of his old friend, usually when he was displeased with the garrison.
‘By Gad,’ he would groan, ‘if I had des Roches with me, I’d turn you loose, the lot of you. I employ nearly two hundred to safeguard this place, yet the River Tower was empty this morning when I went by. It is normal practice to make the guard-change on the walls, or in the towers, not down here in the yard. I don’t wish to see it empty again, do you understand?’
Or, more simply, he conjured his friend as a judgement on them all. ‘I pray des Roches does not see this place. He’d mistake it for a dung-heap, I swear he would. Scour the rust off those hinges, or you’ll be paying for new ones. Yes, you three! Get on with it!’
But there was no acrimony now as the Earl of Pembroke strode through the snow, shouting for his friend.
Des Roches squeezed between the doorposts and bellowed his reply. ‘I haven’t shrunk, have I? Or do you mistake me for a horse?’ They ploughed towards each other, the visitor critical of the unswept yard, his host aware that he should have had it cleared.
Isn’t that always the way, Marshal thought. It had to snow just before he arrived. And what’s this? Is he blind in one eye?
Well, well, the Arab’s grown a moustache. He could hide an army in it. Now whose idea was that, I wonder; his, or that young lady he married, quick, what’s her name, Isabel, yes, Isabel de Clare.
They collided in a wordless embrace. The wall-guards snatched a glance at their paragon, then turned their attention to the moonlit snowscape beyond the walls. He was big, no doubt about that. And he had a voice. And, judging from the scabbard, a sword like a ship’s oar. They made a mental note; William des Roches; not to be crossed.
The knights stumbled apart, breathless. When Marshal had refilled his chest, he said, ‘You’re in time to celebrate Christ’s Mass with us, confrere. And to eat us empty, I hope.’ He was about to take des Roches by the arm and escort him inside to meet Isabel when he saw the man hesitate.
‘Before we go in, there is something I must tell you. Is there a private room we can use?’
‘Well, I— Yes, anywhere. But if you want a fire—’
‘No, that can wait.’ He pointed at the deserted smithy, in effect little more than an open shed, lined with broken farm implements and racks of blunted swords. ‘That’ll do.’
Marshal nodded, detoured to collect a torch from the wall, then rejoined des Roches at the entrance to the workshop.
‘We may have to celebrate elsewhere,’ des Roches told him. ‘In a week or so, all England will be stirring.’
Marshal jammed the torch into a knot-hole in the planks, and both men withdrew into the smithy. ‘It must be serious, if you expect the country to awake in winter.’
‘It is serious. The most serious thing that could have happened. King Richard has been captured.’
‘King Richard has— What? That’s not possible!’
Des Roches sighed. ‘Nevertheless, it has happened. And I was with him at the time.’
‘With him where?’
‘In Vienna, Austria. A damn sight colder than this. I was also with him in Syria. We left there in October – the ninth or tenth, it doesn’t matter – and we were blown off-course to the island of Corfu. Sea Slicer, that’s his ship, it was damaged by the storm, but the king had heard such alarming rumours about John – By the way, are they true? Does John intend to seize the throne?’
‘It seems so,’ Marshal said. ‘He’s gone from bad to worse these last months. Not even Queen Eleanor can control him. But let me hear your story first. Who captured him?’
‘I’ll get to that. We were in Corfu, but Richard was so anxious to press on to England that he wouldn’t wait for Sea Slicer to be repaired. So he hired – and can you credit this – he hired a pirate vessel to take us up to Ancona or Venice, from where we’d go overland. But October is not the time to sail the Adriatic, and anyway the corsair had as much knowledge of weather and navigation as I have. Less! Oh, he put us ashore firmly enough. On the rocks of Dalmatia! It’s some comfort to me that the fool drowned, but, as you may know, Dalmatia sits across the water from Italy, and it’s a long ride to England.’ He lifted one of the broken plough-blades, fiddled with it for a moment, then returned it carefully to its place. ‘Did you hear of the business with Leopold of Austria?’
‘When Richard threw down his flag?’
‘That’s it. I mention it because Austria now lay directly in our path. But again, the king would not be delayed. I advised him to wait for a merchant ship, but he’s a bad sailor at the best of times, and I think he’d had enough of the waves. So we bought some horses, and disguised Richard as—’
‘How many of you were with him?’
‘Just two,’ des Roches said, letting his breath hiss out like smoke. ‘Myself and a squire.’
A dozen questions clung to Marshal’s tongue. Why had Richard travelled without a bodyguard? Where was the squire? Had John been informed of his brother’s capture? Had Philip been told? Indeed, was Philip the gaoler, or was it the vengeful Leopold? And what force had been assembled that could defeat the Lionheart and des Roches?
But he managed to restrain himself, and waited for the knight to continue.
A curious guard appeared in the entrance, saw his suzerain and hurriedly withdrew. The torch in the wall seemed ready to expire.
‘We disguised him as a Templar. I can’t remember where we found the uniform, but we dressed him in a white cloak, with a red cross on the shoulder, and a leather cap with a good wide brim. Then we rode north, through Slovenia and into Austria.’ He turned his good eye on Marshal and emitted a harsh, self-accusative laugh. ‘It was pitiful. Did we really think Coeur-de-Lion could be mistaken for a soldier? Can you put horns on a horse and make a bull of it? I don’t know…’ He slumped against the wall, the last of his strength ebbing with the torch-light.
‘We’ll go in soon,’ Marshal encouraged. ‘But tell me how he was captured. And who—’
‘That? Oh, that was easily done. We reached Vienna, and Richard strode into a tavern, booming French at the top of his voice, demanding food and wine, removed his cap and that was that. One moment the place was half-empty, the next it was full of Duke Leopold’s men. Thirty or forty of them, coming in the front doors, and through the back. I had Richard’s cap in my hand, I remember, trying to make him put it on. His hair— Well, Christ support me, he might as well have been wrapped in the banner of England.’
He remembered something else, and smiled. ‘Through some odd oversight, I was left at the table. Ironic, eh, old Marshal? I had to leave the steaming food and follow them to the castle, all but begging to be arrested.’
‘But they let you go.’
‘Myself and the squire. They needed us to spread the word. Yes, and to relay Leopold’s terms. I saw him briefly, at the castle, and I can assure you he is as angry now as when Richard displaced h
is flag. He claims he has been insulted as never before, so he demands a ransom that has never before been equalled.’
‘A ransom? From England? We’d have trouble filling a saddle-bag.’
‘Well… We will need quite a few saddle-bags if we’re to get our king back. Quite a few.’
‘How much does Leopold want?’
Des Roches squinted out at the snow, then looked back at Marshal. ‘He wants one hundred and fifty thousand silver marks, I regret to say. A mark is half a pound in weight, so we must somehow amass, let me see, I’d already worked it out, yes, close on thirty tons of silver. Saddle-bags? A pack-train, more likely.’
Marshal let his head swing in despair, while des Roches concluded, ‘But it should be enough to satisfy even the Lionheart’s vanity, hmm?’
* * *
Richard had always known he had enemies, as a lion has fleas. But he had prided himself on his ability to deal with them, either by tolerating them as the parasites they were, or by scratching them off. His confidence had never deserted him, for he had never imagined he could be harmed, or locked in a cage.
But he was caged now, his whereabouts unknown, and his enemies made ready to bite.
Leopold of Austria regained all the esteem he had lost at Acre, though he was soon forced to relinquish his prisoner.
Frederick Barbarossa’s son, Henry of Germany, was another of Richard’s enemies, and Leopold’s overlord. Delighted by Leopold’s coup, he nevertheless demanded that his vassal duke surrender Richard to him. So the prisoner ceased to be the property of Austria, and was taken to Germany.
Philip of France was also elated by the news. At last the boorish giant had been brought down, fair punishment for his insults, and for the way he had discarded poor Alais. He offered to purchase the prisoner from Emperor Henry, at any price the German cared to name. But one did not snare a lion every day, and Henry declined.
Geoffrey FitzRoy greeted the news with equanimity. He had never forgiven Richard for having hounded their father to his grave. However, since his maltreatment at the hands of Longchamp and Richenda, Geoffrey had become a celebrity in England. He had not died like Thomas Becket, but he had suffered like Becket, and he bathed in the reflected glory of Becket’s martyrdom. He was now regarded as head of the Church – almost a king with a mitre, in place of a crown. So he was content to bide his time.
And then there was John.
Born on Christmas Eve, he was just twenty-five years old. But it was in the last three months that he had matured beyond recognition. Longchamp’s expulsion, together with Richard’s absence in the Holy Land, had wrought an extraordinary change in the high-heeled prince. He was no longer John Lackland, the boy-led-easy, the playground for soft- limbed courtiers. He had mastered his mannerisms and kept his hand from his head. He coined no new nicknames, but addressed his peers by their full titles, and gave lessons in courtesy. He bathed regularly, dispensed with jewellery, offended no one.
Hadwisa was paraded on his arm, her every attempt at humour rewarded by his chuckle. She heard him commend her in public, credit her with a rare sense of intuition and speak of her as his inseparable companion.
‘Whatever slight virtues the Lord God has thought fit to bestow on me will be brought to fruition by my Lady Hadwisa. I would be lost without her, though I don’t intend to mislay such a treasure. And be warned,’ he laughed, ‘I’m a jealous man.’
He was well aware that he had become popular by default, as the only alternative to Longchamp, but he was determined to retain this unexpected gift. However, it was not enough that England accepted him as somewhat better than the monkey. They must be made to love him for himself. And, later, perhaps to worship him?
It was with this in mind that ten days after the news of Richard’s capture, he made a solitary journey to Paris. There, he swore fealty to Philip of France. John agreed to help the king invade Normandy, if Philip would then support a revolt in England. And, as a gesture of good faith, John promised to divorce Hadwisa and marry the shopworn Alais.
‘In all honesty,’ he said, ‘I cannot take another lecture on the size of cooking pots, or the way to mix dyes. Hadwisa is well-informed, I’ll grant her that, my lord king, but the boredom of it all…’
By the end of January, John was back in England, making plans for the insurrection that would sweep him on to the throne.
* * *
The table was large enough to accommodate all six; Queen Eleanor, Marshal and Isabel, Roger Malchat and Sheriff Fitz Renier, and the massive des Roches. A full night had come and gone, and they were still there, plotting their course of action. Others, who were unable to attend in person, had sent messages of encouragement, most of them including suggestions as to what might be done. These were often as fanciful as John’s assassination schemes, but nothing had been rejected, or laughed out of court.
Indeed, there had been no laughter at all that night, for it was hard to wring gaiety from the imminent destruction of England.
They had recently learned of John’s visit to Philip, and of the incredible bargain that had been struck. Whether or not Hadwisa knew of it they could not say, but they spared a thought for her in her world of cloth and cookery.
His voice dulled by lack of sleep, Fitz Renier attempted to sum up their discussions.
‘We are faced with two choices. We can arrest John as a potential traitor, or, if that fails, declare war on him. Or we can raise the ransom and bring Richard back as our re-established king. To my mind, the first is too desperate a course to follow. Forty years ago, this country was racked by civil war. Most of us were mere children then, but even now I have memories of those God-forsaken times. “The years when Christ slept”; that’s how someone described them, and we dare not put Him to sleep again.’
A terrifying picture edged into Marshal’s mind. The scene was so vivid, the faces so clear, that a small mew of alarm escaped his lips. It was the sound a child would make when monsters stalk the bed…
The castle of Newbury had been under siege for weeks. Its castellan was elsewhere, pursuing the war against King Stephen. But the king had out-flanked him, and the royal army had surrounded his home. Inside the battered walls was the castellan’s five-year-old son, too excited by events to miss his father.
The foodstocks had run out, and it was evident that the garrison must surrender or starve. The constable of the castle pleaded with Stephen and it was agreed that, if the castle was not relieved within three days, the gates would be opened. The five-year-old was lowered from the walls and given as a hostage to the besiegers.
The image shifted, moving forward half a week…
Newbury had not been relieved, though its castellan had sent word to the constable. There was to be no surrender. Help would arrive. Meanwhile, the gates were to stay shut.
Now the child was in the enemy camp. He could see the king, with his thin black hair and straggly moustache, and he heard someone snap, ‘Do what you said you’d do. How else will you earn respect? Haul him up where they can see. Great God, you’re England’s king, aren’t you? Then act the part!’
He saw a group of barons move under a tree and throw a rope at one of the branches. It occurred to the child that they were trying to knock down fruit, or dislodge something trapped up there. He’d seen the local boys bring down squirrels that way, and he was pleased when the king took him by the hand and led him towards the barons.
He remembered speaking…
‘Everybody eats squirrels. I’ll try, if you like.’
‘What did you say, boy?’
‘If you want to get the squirrels—’
‘No, no, it’s not for that.’ The king stopped, and there was further argument. The barons had only succeeded in throwing the rope over a branch, but nothing had fallen from the tree. The child accepted that this particular exercise was finished and looked round for some new diversion. He saw a man named Arundel, or perhaps that’s where he came from, leaning on a long, painted spear. A small pennant hung below
the spear-tip, and the boy tugged at Stephen’s hand.
‘Can I have that?’ Then, remembering his manners, ‘My lord Stephen King?’
The king seemed glad of an excuse to interrupt his argument. ‘Have what, boy? What do you want?’
‘His spear. Arundel’s. Just to throw.’
‘You couldn’t even lift it. It’s not as light as it looks. It’s quite a— Sweet Jesus, I’ll not go through with it! Pull down that rope! Can’t you see, he doesn’t know! We’ll take that castle, but not this way. Not this way, Arundel! Get over here! Give me your spear, oh, for God’s sake, let him touch it. He’s a child!’
And then the image splintered, like a dropped mirror…
A fragment showed the king, his face buried in his hands, weeping about something or other.
Another shard reflected the tall, hollow-faced Arundel, frowning as he watched the boy stagger beneath the weight of the spear. ‘Take care,’ he said awkwardly, ‘or it’ll come down on you.’
In a further chip of memory the constable of Newbury was reclaiming him and snarling like an angry dog. ‘We saw what you were about, you bloody butchers! You were going to hang him. Five years in this world, and you were going to hang him! A thing like that. It should remove all doubt from your minds as to why we oppose you. Stay still, William Marshal. Oh, go on then, if you must, bow to the king. Very well, now stay with me. I’m taking you home.’
And, ever since, he had never hanged a man, nor signed his name to a sentence of death by hanging, nor permitted any tree to bear such fruit on his lands. As Isabel had discovered, when she had been unearthing what she could about her future husband, he could not abide the feel of rope, or the sight of a tasselled girdle…
At which point Fitz Renier said, ‘The second choice is less dangerous, but almost impossible to achieve,’ and Marshal realized the nightmare had passed in the blink of an eye. He shifted in his chair, felt the blood course into his buttocks, and leaned forward to hear the sheriff’s conclusions.. The dawn light turned them as grey as they felt.
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