At a nod from the king, one of the English barons unfurled a map of France onto the oak table. The document was ill-chosen—a thick red line cheerfully marked the edges of an empire that no longer existed. Normandy and Maine now belonged to Philippe-Augustus, King of France.
Richart put a hand to his brow to hide his anger. Was this their best? Drawn up in the reign of King Richard Coeur de Lion? However, he felt Tibaut’s cautionary hand upon his shoulder, so instead of making a cutting observation, he merely raised sceptical eyebrows at the king.
‘By the Rood!’ snarled John, slamming his fist on the board. ‘Are we surrounded by fools?’
‘Why, yes, you are, my lord.’ It was the dwarf, who capered over to the wooden chest by the door and after making play of almost falling in, drew out a long, cleaner-looking scroll, which he presented with a bow. He received a kick from the royal foot and tumbled into a somersault.
‘So, Sir Richart,’ John said as he elbowed the older document aside and anchored his side of the vellum with a silver weight, ‘let us to business.’
‘Sire,’ Richart began, ‘as you know, I am here not only on behalf of my grandfather, the Vicomte de Mirascon, and also your former brother-in-law, Raymon, Comte de Toulouse, together with the rulers of Foix, Béziers-Carcassonne and—’
‘Ah, how is dear old Raymon?’ interrupted John. Behind him, his councillors stirred with amusement. ‘Still excommunicated? Pope Innocent does love excommunicating us wilful princes. Has Raymon murdered any more papal legates?’
Richart took a deep breath. ‘Your Grace, I am here because we have received the intelligence, as I am sure you have, too, that Pope Innocent is calling for a crusade next summer—not against the pagans in the Holy Land—but in southern France against the Cathars! They are also known as Albigensians. You have heard of them, I take it?’
‘Christ on the cross! Yes, of course, we know who the Cathars are,’ replied John. ‘I gather Raymon and the rest of you have let their preachers roam freely. Becoming a problem, eh? Don’t these misguided creatures believe the Devil rules the world?’
A bishop standing behind the king twitched into alertness, and behind his own back, Richart heard Père Arbert draw an eager breath. Hell take it, let these two begin and everyone would be here all day!
‘It serves no purpose to digress into theological discussion, my lord king,’ he said swiftly. ‘What should be of greater concern is that Pope Innocent intends to persuade King Philippe-Augustus to sanction a great army for this enterprise. I would suggest that your fiefdoms in France will be at future risk once this crusade achieves momentum.’
‘God’s teeth, Sir Richart, don’t you mean if? Sounds to me like it’s still unformed in the womb.’
‘You think so, my lord? Then answer me this,’ countered Richart. ‘If you were a landless French knight, would you turn down the chance to loot the south?’
Stroking his beard, John perused the map. His duchy of Aquitaine, stretching between the great ocean and the upper reaches of the Loire, lay like a great buffer between the north, which was ruled by the King of France, and Occitania—a loose mesh of city-states stretching to the great mountains of the Pyrenees.
‘Mirascon is shown too far south,’ muttered Richart. ‘It lies here.’ He jabbed the map between Toulouse and Montpellier. ‘Here, north of Carcassonne. There’s a pilgrim road that runs through from the north that’s not shown either.’
‘Just be glad it’s on the map at all,’ muttered John, but he seemed to be assessing the vulnerability of the Occitan lords. ‘So your grandsire and Lord Raymon are asking me to break my truce with Philippe-Augustus?’ he said at last.
‘I am asking Your Grace to consider the consequences of an over-mighty France.’
‘Hmm. The solution seems remarkably simple, young man. If you and your fellow countrymen have no leanings towards heresy, then surely your lands and inheritance are secure from Pope Innocent’s scheming?’ Behind him, his advisers nodded.
‘Sire,’ persisted Richart. ‘This so-called crusade will be an excuse for the northern knights to seize the southern lands. Do you imagine these marauders will ask who are Cathars and who are not before they set fire to our villages and put our people to the sword?’
John grinned like a man being gentle with a dimwit. ‘Ah, but you mistake my point. A crusade is no lightweight matter. Surely his holiness must have been presented with indisputable evidence, otherwise he would have no justification for this enterprise?’ He leaned back smugly, lifting his palms towards his supplicant. ‘Now tell me honestly, do you share these heretical beliefs?’
‘No, I do not.’ Richart resisted a clenched glare at the faces across the board.
John was not finished. ‘Yet I understand that despite the warnings from Pope Innocent, your grandsire and these other lords you purport to represent, continue to offer refuge to these Cathars.’
‘Not refuge, my lord, they are treated like any other vassals.’
‘Then I must counsel you again, Sir Richart. Be wise, advise your grandfather and his fellow lords to take some action against these misled wretches. Banish them, perhaps, or,’ he shrugged, ‘better still, burn them.’
Burn them?
‘My grandfather has taken no action against these people, sire, because they have caused no civil disturbances within our lands.’
‘Isn’t that because a lot of them are women?’ The king lifted a hand to stifle the amusement behind him. ‘I am informed these Cathars permit women to deliver sermons. Women! In fact, I have reports that tell me many of these heretics are of noble rank, wives and sisters of the lords you speak for.’ The smirks on the faces behind the king made it clear they thought the men of Occitania soft. The dwarf impudently flopped a wrist.
‘It is too warm in the south to light bonfires,’ Richart answered calmly, striving to keep his face indifferent. ‘And we desire to keep it that way. What’s more,’ he continued, ‘like you, we make up our own minds on many religious matters. For instance, sire, I’m sure his holiness would wish you to banish the Jews from England, yet it pleases you to allow your barons to borrow money from them. Isn’t it the law here that when a Jewish moneylender dies, the crown inherits his wealth and the debts owing to him, which places many a man in your mercy?’
‘That is true,’ John admitted silkily. ‘Neat, eh? Bring me wine, boy!’ He snapped his fingers at a page and rose to his feet.
Richart scraped his bench back angrily. Was the discussion over? God damn this lily-liv—
‘Let the chamber be cleared,’ commanded John, observing his guest’s anger with a sardonic curl of lip. ‘Go!’ he gestured to his councillors. ‘I shall speak privily with Lord Richart.’
‘Shall we stay?’ Tibaut asked softly at his cousin’s elbow.
‘No, if this is the way he plays it,’ muttered Richart. ‘Leave us.’
While the chamber cleared, the pageboy fetched a silver flagon and two mazers from the cup board and left. Only the obnoxious dwarf lingered, a curly-haired wretch in his early thirties, most grotesquely shaved with a moustache only on the left side and a beard only on the right. Half his tunic was green, the other half yellow—demon colours—and likewise his cross-laced leggings.
‘Occitania,’ the small fellow chanted, stroking stubby fingers across the map. ‘The lands of troubadours and courtly love, of sunlight and grapevines.’ His forefinger came to rest on the crudely drawn castle that represented Mirascon. Brown eyes, the hue of almond kernels, pinioned Richart. ‘And do you write poetry and songs, my noble lord?’
Was he being set up for mockery? The dwarf had a scorching wit. ‘Only in times of peace, small man.’
Turning to his master, the dwarf asked, ‘Are not these warm lands of music and pleasure worth an alliance? Ow!’
John not only dealt him a cuff on the temple for his insolence, he also grabbed him by the ear. ‘I ordered you to leave, fool! Get out!’
Loosened, the dwarf pointed to the map and shriek
ed, ‘Then burn, burn, burn, Mirascon! Fall to the red and bloody crosses of the crusade, for here is naught but folly!’ and making great play of his sore head, he tumbled onto all fours and crawled out.
‘Derwent grows tedious,’ declared John. ‘I intend to sell him as soon as I can find a buyer. Do you know any prince who might take him?’
Richart of Mirascon, however, was staring at the map; the dwarf’s uttering had made his blood run cold.
‘I said—’
‘Yes, I heard you, sire.’ This sudden small talk was irritating and he disliked John speaking of the fool as though he was a beast to be traded but it was necessary to stay pleasant. With a hunch of shoulders, he strode across to stand before the warmth of the hearth. Even the glowing embers echoed the dwarf’s utterance. The pretence of stretching out gloved hands to the fire gave him time to compose himself before he turned and folded his arms. ‘The King of Navarre possesses a female dwarf. I believe he is looking to pair her.’
‘There’s an ugly thought.’ John paused as he removed the pinnacled lids from the mazers. ‘But I suppose he thinks to profit from any progeny. Try this!’ He filled the cups and set down the flagon before he joined Richart by the fire. ‘Here! Drink without fear. My food taster has checked it for poison. I have it brought by ship direct from Bordeaux.’
‘Your health,’ muttered Richart. The silver vessels clinked.
‘I imagine dwarves procreate the same as the rest of us,’ John continued. ‘I must ask Derwent if he’s ever managed to get his leg over any of the laundry women. Have you noticed they cannot stretch their arms like we can?’
‘Laundry women?’
‘No dwarves. Isn’t the wine to your liking?’
‘Sire.’ Richart set down the mazer on the table. ‘Your pardon, but I did not come all this way to England to discuss the mating of dwarves.’
John’s eyes narrowed and he was silent for a moment before he said, ‘I shall forgive you your impatience and your lack of respect, my boy, but you would do well to be more circumspect in your diplomacy.’
Richart inclined his head. It was the nearest he would come to an apology.
‘Every man has his price,’ continued John. ‘What’s yours?’
‘I will do anything to make sure this damnable crusade comes nowhere near Mirascon.’
‘Anything? Let me see if I am right in this. If I refuse to offer your grandfather an alliance, you purpose to ride straight to Paris and pledge your allegiance to King Philippe-Augustus as your overlord.’
Richart took a swig of the wine. ‘It is a consideration. He wants to conquer the whole of France and gradually he is succeeding. At least I shall be approaching him now as a free man rather than later with a rope about my neck.’
‘It will mean you and your grandfather joining the crusade—if the plaguey enterprise ever gets legs. Ha, now you flinch! Yet you tell me you would do anything to save your people.’
‘Many of my people support the Cathars. The pope is not just pressing for a purge on them but a war against any who give them shelter.’
John was silent for a few moments then he said, ‘So, tell me, how is your overlord, Raymon, proposing to play matters if Philippe-Augustus permits a crusade?’
‘As I have said, I am here with the comte’s blessing.’ Richart strode back to the map. ‘When you look at this, Toulouse appears vast and powerful, yet, as you are aware, my lord, it is made up of too many small fiefdoms and that is a great weakness.’ He swung round to face the king. ‘However, if the southern lords might have a promise from you that you will support us if we are attacked, then this crusade may be strangled at birth.’
John had listened. ‘But if I openly make a promise to you now, it will mean that I have broken my truce with Philippe-Augustus. His soldiers will be all over my lands like a pestilence. I’m not prepared for war at present.’ He wandered back to the map and stood, sipping his wine. Then he turned his head. ‘What if I were to become your overlord? Would that not offer the assurance you require?’
‘Overlord to Mirascon? Possibly, but how may it be accomplished?’
John smiled and took another draught of wine. ‘I have a ward, a young widow who is heiress to lands in England as well as a vast holding in Gascony.’ He pointed to the heart of his duchy. ‘I’ve been saving her for the right suitor, someone who could pay a high price. Waive your claim to the manors she’s inherited in England and you shall have her lands in Gascony. Thus, when you inherit your fiefdom on your grandfather’s death, I become your lawful overlord.’ He took another draught of wine and added, ‘If we are to agree on this, I shall expect you to bring an army to my banner if I go to war with Philippe-Augustus. In return, I shall aid you with a force from Gascony if Mirascon is attacked.’
Would John also demand that his grandfather banish the Cathars from his lands as part of the bargain? Richart waited uneasily, but the king did not venture there.
‘So, then, a bride for you, my lord?’ his royal host asked, clapping his hands together. ‘Alys FitzPoyntz of Gloucester, nineteen years old and ripe for a new husband. Shall you take her?’
Richart strode across to the window. He required more time to think and he mistrusted the man’s eagerness. Had the old goat already enjoyed this Alys? ‘And is this noblewoman here at Corfe?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘No, she attends my former wife, the Countess of Gloucester, who will, I promise you, vouch for the young woman’s modesty and accomplishments.’
‘Any children?’ He turned to observe how the king answered.
John waggled a hand. ‘Alas, her fertility has not really been tested. Her late husband had more years than he had prowess, so to speak. Yes, yes, I realise you’ll require a wife who can whelp easily, so if you wish to inspect her before you commit yourself, I can send for the wench.’
And how long would that take? Noble ladies moved at the rate of snails. Even if this Alys packed swiftly and was not indisposed by her monthly flux, Richart doubted she would come to Corfe on horseback. A litter more like. God forbid! He might be stuck here for weeks.
‘That will not be necessary, Your Grace,’ he declared firmly. ‘However, if I do agree to this marriage—and I will give you my answer this day—I shall require Lady Alys to learn the tongue we speak in Mirascon. Mayhap I can send my chaplain, Arbert, to instruct her. Or better still, perhaps she could join the queen’s household for a few weeks. Her grace speaks the langue d’oc.’
John seemed averse to the latter suggestion. ‘Pah, these details can be dealt with later,’ he replied smoothly. ‘One more matter—have I mentioned to you that one of my mercenary captains is being held hostage somewhere in Occitania?’
Now came the hazardous part of his mission. Richart drained his cup and set it on the board, before he looked across at John. ‘Do you mean Gaspard, Girard d’Athée’s brother? There have been rumours, yes, but I heard he was definitely slain at the siege of Loches.’
‘No, I think you know very well of whom I’m speaking.’ John drew his lips together in a seam before he added, ‘In fact, since it is known I value that particular captain highly, I believe it is just a matter of time before the captor demands a ransom from me, a very substantial ransom, I suspect. On the other hand, he may now intend to strike a different bargain.’ He paused, his gaze sharp. ‘And I suspect that if I do not honour his proposal, he will hang his prisoner. It is you and your grandfather who have my mercenary, is it not?’
The patter of a rat behind the Herod tapestry disrupted the silence. Richart let the ripple of stitches cease before he answered. ‘You know, my lord, if that were so, you would take me hostage in retaliation. I hope you do not think I am stupid enough to consider you a man so easily deceived.’
With relief, he saw the reluctant twitch of acknowledgement where the royal moustache and beard mingled, but the eyes above were those of a hunter poised to kill. ‘In truth, Your Highness,’ he continued, fingering his cross as if in fearful appeasement, ‘I
can only guess the name of the mercenary you seek, but I will swear upon the Holy Gospels that my grandfather has no such prisoner in his dungeons. I can certainly make inquiries among the neighbouring fiefdoms on my return.’
Suspicion lingered in the king’s eyes. Richart was reminded of a viper lowering its head after a decision not to strike. Between his shoulder blades, he felt the trickle of sweat. Only after he had bowed his leave from King John’s presence and passed beyond the searching faces of the royal henchmen, did he permit himself the pleasure of a triumphant smile.
Chapter Three
I’d like to sing of a beauteous lady, Noble, fair and honest. Instead, I must clap my hands to my ears As I hear how she shares her bed. And I’m haunted by another too, No better than a common servant. Too virtuous for a king.
Un sirventes novel by Richart de Mirascon
If rats could do it, so could she. It had seemed a wondrous inspiration to scurry up a ship plank at the quay in Wareham and secrete herself in the cog’s hold among the leather hides and the bales of cheap broadcloth. She had been too frightened of her hunters to imagine what might happen to her if the ship’s crew snared her or the ship sailed out through Poole Harbour, so it was terrifying to wake to the wooden boards rocking beneath her body and the irregular slap of water against the clinkered timber. Bony fingers of light from the wooden slats of the hold cover showed an ooze of water penetrating up through the boards as though the infinite surging monster beneath her was forcing its way in. Jesu! The Thames journey on the queen’s barge had not fortified her for this.
She desperately wriggled further into her hiding place as the grille above opened and two of the mariners climbed down. They inspected the cargo, examined the growing furrow of water, but to her amazement neither swabbing nor pumping was ordered, nor did they suspect they were within inches of a stowaway.
Adela’s luck held throughout the day, so when nightfall came the clouds shrouding the half-moon provoked her to take a further risk.
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