The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  They went on a way before Marshal asked if the king would visit Queen Berengaria while he was in the south. Richard said yes, quite possibly, if there was time and if she came some of the way to meet him.

  Which means no, Marshal told himself.

  They passed through Anjou and Touraine, and Richard thought of detouring to visit Eleanor at Fontevrault. But he was anxious to see the treasure and claim it for the crown. He’d call on his mother on the way back. And tell John to rejoin Marshal and continue his education. But first the gold table, and the candelabra and the wealth of coins and plate.

  On 26th March, they reached the district of Limousin and were escorted to the man on whose lands the treasure had been discovered. He would not say what the treasure comprised, but that it was still there, in the field where it had been found, and was being kept safe inside a well-guarded leather tent. He added that it was his property now, and under no circumstances would he surrender it to the king.

  Everything he said had to be repeated, for the field was beneath the walls of Chaluz, on the domain of Aimer, Viscount of Limoges.

  * * *

  Richard was in no mood to be crossed, and reacted furiously to Aimer’s challenge.

  ‘Even if your impediment prevents you from speaking sense, you can still hear it from others, can’t you?’

  The melancholic viscount uttered his strange, unintelligible sounds, and his interpreter repeated them. ‘Neither my lord’s hearing, nor his good sense have deserted him… He is quite clear as to what he told you, king. The treasure belongs to him… If he shares it with anyone it will be with the man who unearthed it, not the one who ridiculed him at Loches.’ Richard glared at Aimer’s misshapen mouth. ‘A joke about your voice? You call that—’

  ‘Don’t dissemble,’ the translator said. ‘Don’t take us for fools. We remember how you behaved, and so do you.’

  ‘So you refuse me what is rightfully mine?’

  ‘We do, and will dispute your claim in every court in the land.’

  That’ll take years, Richard fretted. As soon as the Germans learn that the statue is in their style, they’ll lodge their own appeal. And, if the rumours about the Roman coins are true, the papacy will be quick to take an interest. God’s legs, every nation in the West will lay claim to some part of it, and Château Gaillard will never be finished.

  He adopted a less belligerent posture. ‘There’s no need for animosity, Limoges. Will you not extend the hand of friendship, and treat the incident at Loches for what it was?’

  ‘We know what it was, king, a calculated insult.’

  ‘Well, at least let me inspect the treasure. I’ve ridden this far—’

  ‘Inspect it to what purpose? It’s not yours, and eyeing it will only make you greedy.’

  Richard abandoned his efforts to make peace. ‘This is very wrong,’ he warned, ‘very dangerous. I shall have the contents of that tent, one way or another. Now, I’ll ask you for the last time. Will you surrender the treasure to me, or shall I be forced to— Where are you going? Limoges? Limoges! You dare walk out on me? I shall have that table, do you hear me, the table and— And then I shall have your title, your lands, every castle and manor on your domains! Do you hear me, Limoges? Everything! Everything, do you hear?’

  * * *

  He did not give his hundred knights time to assemble, but hauled himself into the saddle and set off in the direction of Chaluz. Marshal and a man named Robert of Breteuil were among those who managed to keep pace with him, but it was a disorganized rabble of riders that cantered across the open ground below the castle. Marshal noticed that the king had removed his helmet, and he spurred forward to warn him. There was no trace of the tent below the north or east walls, so Richard swung his horse along a bare ridge of rock and followed it as it curved past the southeast comer of Chaluz. Marshal went after him, with Breteuil and twenty others in pursuit.

  They emerged beneath the south face of the castle, and there was the leather canopy, surrounded by mounds of earth, wicker fences, and a strong protective force.

  Richard was still some way off, but he was sure he could glimpse the soft glow of gold inside the tent.

  If he doesn’t rein-in soon, Marshal thought, the guards will believe they’re under attack. And for God’s sake, Lionheart, conceal your mane.

  As if in response to the unspoken warnings, the king halted his horse and jammed his helmet on his head. Then he turned and shouted at Marshal and Breteuil, ‘Did you see it, my lords? There’s enough gold in there to pay for Gaillard, and a barrel of wine!’

  A shadow flickered across his eyes, and he glanced down at the crossbow quarrel that had whirred past and buried itself in the ground. Marshal raised an arm, pointing at a window in the southeast tower. Breteuil called to the king to come back, then sent his palfrey galloping across the sun-baked field. The tent guards watched them, the butts of their spears rammed into the ground. They saw Breteuil unsling his shield, ready to pass it to the giant, and heard someone – Marshal – shout, ‘Watch the window! There’s another bolt—’

  It flew down, passed a few feet in front of Breteuifs shield and caught Richard full in the shoulder. An arrow would have been accurate over a greater distance, but a crossbow bolt was a fearsome weapon at short range. Short and heavy, it was loosed at tremendous velocity, and its iron, mace-shaped head could penetrate a three-inch-thick oak door. When it hit a man, its effect was terrible.

  Richard cartwheeled from the saddle, snapping the thick shaft of the quarrel as he crashed to the ground. Breteuil sprang clumsily from his horse and drove the point of his shield into the earth, to protect the king from further missiles. In fact, a crossbow bolt would have passed clean through the shield, though the curved metal might have deflected it.

  Marshal came off his horse, caught Richard around the chest and started dragging him away from the tower. Breteuil shared the burden, and together the warlords carried him out of arrow range. His face and neck were webbed with blood, and two things were immediately obvious. First, that he had not been wearing his link-mail hauberk which, again, might have deflected the bolt, and second, that the bolt had entered his left shoulder, turned inward, and was lodged under his collar-bone. It would require careful cutting to get it free.

  The riderless horses had trotted back to rejoin Richard’s horrified escort, and now there was only Breteuil’s upright shield to mark where the incident had occurred. The tent guards watched, unmoved, as the wounded man was draped over his horse and led away. They did not know who he was, but Lord Aimer had warned everyone in the district to keep clear of Chaluz, and the intruder should have heeded the warning. The man was a fool, charging in like that. What else had he expected, a fanfare of trumpets?

  * * *

  It was after the physicians had operated that Richard Lionheart knew he would die. They had cut deep and wide in their efforts to remove the bolt, but they had done nothing to prevent the wound becoming infected. Their instruments were filthy and the weather was hot and, once they’d extracted the arrowhead, they regarded their work as finished. There was some indecent squabbling as to who should keep the grisly souvenir, but when that was settled they were content to wait and let nature seal the wound.

  But neither Marshal nor Breteuil were so complacent, and they sent for Eleanor and Berengaria.

  Richard’s mother was the first to arrive, though without John. ‘He left Fontevrault four days ago. I sent your messenger on to Château Gaillard; John said he was returning there to continue in your service. You must be having an extraordinary effect on him, Marshal. I never saw him so happy as during his last visit.’

  ‘John happy? I don’t see why. He loathes instruction. He lodged a complaint a day with the king.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he spoke well of your methods, and seemed excited at the prospects of rejoining you.’

  Marshal had too much else on his mind to spare more than a thought for Prince John. But happy? Excited? That was not how he’d left Gaillard. />
  He shrugged aside the contradiction and prepared Eleanor for her reunion with Richard. ‘When you see him, you must not expect him to know you. Sometimes he is lucid, other times he relives the past. His tremendous strength is in his favour, and the physicians seem sure he will recover.’

  ‘And you? Are you sure, Marshal?’

  ‘I am not a physician—’

  ‘You are a soldier, so you should know at a glance if an injury is fatal. Will the king recover, strong as he is?’

  If he does not completely lose his senses, and the wound does not become infected, then, yes, there is the chance he will survive.’

  Eleanor looked at him, nodded at what he would not say, and asked, ‘Will you wait for me here, Marshal? When I have seen the king, there is something I must discuss with you.’ Then she bowed her head and moved into the dimness of Richard’s pavilion. Marshal closed the flaps behind her.

  The pavilion had been pitched on the edge of the field, so that, when the king grew strong enough to see, he could lie propped up in bed, looking directly at Aimer’s treasure tent.

  The viscount had expressed deep regret over Richard’s injury, and had agreed to leave the treasure where it was until the king was well again. But he would not put the pieces on display, nor verify the size and description of the fabulous table. Richard’s escort began to wonder if the table existed at all; or, indeed, if there was anything in the tent but a tent-pole. It would be a cruel joke if Richard Lionheart had ridden down to claim so much gold, then been rewarded with a bolt of iron.

  * * *

  She emerged from the pavilion and hurriedly drank the water Marshal offered. When she had finished, he took the mug from her, tossed it to one of the guards and escorted Eleanor to his own tent. She looked back once and said, ‘He will never leave there, you know. I had no idea—’ She had already taken his arm, but now she caught at it with her other hand. ‘I did not imagine an arrow could inflict such a wound.’

  ‘Crossbow quarrels are worse than arrows. The king has been hit by arrows before.’ He led her gently into his tent and lowered her into a large, leather-strapped chair. The chair could be taken apart and slipped into a sack for travelling. Isabel had given it to him during the first year of their marriage, and he had hired a wood-carver to engrave their names in the plain, flat chair arms. In an excess of zeal the man had surrounded the names with a simple hunting scene, so that the chair was now admired by visitors, and uncomfortable to rest in.

  But Eleanor leaned forward while she spoke. ‘I could get no sense from him, Marshal. He seems immersed in some wild dream, in which he and Philip of France are somewhere in the East, and the sand is really powdered gold… And he talked of Gaillard, and said someone must cover it from the sun, before it melted… He is dying, isn’t he? You know the signs better than I. You know by now if your king is dying…’

  He waited, but she insisted on an answer. ‘And the truth. I have always expected the truth from you, and I have always got it. You remember how I set you on the road, how surprised you were when I called you to my chambers in Lusignan and showed you those chests, full of clothes and armour?’

  ‘I remember, my lady.’

  ‘I saw you as a man of honour, even then. So you can tell me. Will Richard die from this wound?’

  ‘No one can tell you that he will, or will not. But it is likely.’

  She nodded, and the movement of her head became steady and rhythmical, as much an act of solace as understanding. ‘I thought so, when you sent for me at Fontevrault, when you said it was a crossbow wound. What I told you earlier, that was not quite true. I do know the difference between a simple arrow wound and, one of these…’ She made a vague gesture with her hands, then slammed them on the chair arms, her palms taking the imprint of ISAB— and MARS—.

  ‘So he’s caught at last, and by his own greed! Brought down by some nameless archer in this backwater place! Brought here by the chink of rumour! The King of England, lured here to die!’ She stopped, and they exchanged a sudden, sharp glance. Was it so? Had he been lured to Chaluz? Had Aimer finally repaid him for his ridicule? Was the story of the treasure just bait, and Aimer’s tent filled with nothing more substantial than his strange, gargled laughter?

  But Marshal could not shake from his mind another unanswered question. Why had John appeared happy and excited at Fontevrault? Was it because the prince was anxious to put his mother’s mind at rest? Had he shown a rare maturity by pretending to be happy for her sake? Or had he— No, that was too much.

  Or had he…

  No.

  Or had he known… Had he known what would happen?

  Had he arranged things with Aimer of Chaluz, Viscount of Limoges, and had they both lured King Richard on to the whirring bolt?

  No, Marshal rejected, it was too much. But the very thought etched lines in his forehead.

  * * *

  ‘What I want to discuss with you,’ Eleanor said, ‘is whether or not you will support my other son. We are agreed that King Richard will die and, Christ knows, there is nothing we can do to prevent it. But if that happens, will you give your support to John?’

  ‘I saw King Henry die,’ Marshal said, ‘and I have spent ten years in support of King Richard. If I am to see him die, then I shall be loyal to the next King of England. I have little imagination in this matter, Lady Eleanor. I would support a rabbit, if it was lawfully elected.’ He looked down at the dusty floor of the tent, arranged his thoughts, then added, ‘I had no fondness for your husband, King Henry. Nor do I feel particularly warm towards King Richard. He shares his father’s excessive brutality, and would rather lead an army into battle than a nation into peace. May I go on?’

  ‘You must, Marshal. You’re the only source of truth left to me.’

  ‘Then I’ll say this. If King Richard dies, Prince John will inherit the throne of England. Oh, there will be contenders, but John is the only one with the right to govern. So I shall support him. He cannot be compared with either Henry or Richard, but I shall support him and, hopefully, continue his instruction.

  ‘My hardest task will not be to envisage John as king, but to erase everything else I know about him. You are the only member of your family, Lady Eleanor, whom I have ever liked. It’s a pity we can’t give crowns to our friends. But, rest assured. I shall see it goes to John.’

  It was not easy for Eleanor to smile, with her son dying in the next tent, but, when the rhythmical nodding had ceased, she treated Marshal to an expression he had not seen for many years. He wanted to tell her that when she smiled in that way, she shed thirty years, but he was loth to remind her of her unsmiling age.

  * * *

  Richard of England died on 6th April, 1199, in the pavilion near Chaluz, his head cradled in his mother’s arms. He had never fully regained his senses, though, in brief moments of lucidity, he made Marshal promise to finish Gaillard, and see young John on to the throne.

  ‘… And don’t let Aimer keep that table… Ayay uh Ahuse… I told him I’d never master his language… You get it from him, Marshal, and pay those damned quarry-owners… John is not so bad, you know, but when the wind blows his cheeks fill out… You take care of him, sire, I know you never kept him thirsty like he said, he always exaggerated… Have you seen the table, is it really that big, ten feet across and—’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshal lied, ‘even finer than the descriptions. It’ll settle all the accounts for Gaillard, and I’ll see to it that the walls are topped by winter.’

  ‘… On the main section… As you go across the bridge, I want the northwest tower strengthened… I’m not well enough today, but tomorrow I’ll show you on the plans… Don’t forget to remind me… The northeast, I mean the northwest…’

  ‘We’ll deal with it tomorrow, king. At first light.’

  ‘…I saw my mother in a dream… She came right into the pavilion… I wish God had not let her die…’

  ‘But she is not. She’s with us—’

  ‘…It was
magnificent, though, her death… Leading our men against the French… God’s legs, I never saw Philip run so fast, he’s so ugly, Philip, have you noticed how hideous he is, with his twisted mouth?’

  ‘Too ugly for you,’ Marshal murmured. ‘He would never have done for you.’

  ‘…The west tower, remember… I’m a little tired at present, but we’ll deal with it tomorrow…’ He closed his eyes, mumbled something through parted lips, then succumbed to the gangrenous infection of his wound.

  Marshal and Eleanor stayed there, while priests and bishops crowded in around the bed. It did not seem possible that the giant had been brought down. If one believed that, one would doubt the future of the great Angevin empire, for, if the Lionheart was gone, what would happen to his hunting-grounds?

  * * *

  The gentle and passive Queen Berengaria arrived on 8th April, two days after her husband had died. She had travelled all the way from her principality of Navarre, determined to be with him and aid his recovery. She was placed in Eleanor’s care, and the two women wept together, the mother who had been forced to play the extra roles of confidante and lover, and the wife who had been excluded from them all.

  Robert of Breteuil took charge of the funeral arrangements, leaving Marshal free to ride north to Château Gaillard. On the way he realized that he had not seen inside the treasure tent, so he still did not know if the table existed, or if the melancholic Aimer had laid and sprung a trap. Aimer, or Aimer and John?

  At Gaillard he was welcomed by the prince, who told him that Sawale had worked wonders with the remaining stocks of stone, and that Richard would be delighted when he returned.

  ‘Did he find the treasure? Is he bringing it back here, or is he sending it to Rome to sell it? That’s where he’d get the best price, from one of the Italian guilds.’