by DAVID B. COE
“A votre service, mon seigneur” Godfrey said, inclining his head slightly. At your service, my liege.
“Non. C'est moi qui suis a votre service.” No, it is I who am at your service.
ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE walked with purpose through the cold corridors of London's White Tower, her footsteps echoing off the stone walls and arched ceiling, her hands clenched in fists at her side. By any measure, she had lived a full and fruitful life. She had married and loved two kings, though her love for Louis had been short-lived, a folly of youth. She had given birth to two more, and had already seen one of them buried, which had been harder by far than losing her second husband. Indeed, of her ten children—two by Louis and eight by Henry—only four had survived to this day. For nearly sixteen years, she had lived as a prisoner, moved from fortress to fortress by order of her husband, Henry, who had accused her, with good reason, of plotting with her sons to rob him of the crown.
She had gone on a crusade, survived naval battles in the Mediterranean, and been called a traitor and an incestuous whore and worse. Even now, old enough to feel winter's lingering chill in her bones, she was still Duchess of Aquitaine and Countess of Poitiers.
And yet, for all she had accomplished, for all the challenges she had met and overcome, for all the tragedies that had marked the long arc of her life, no one —no one—had ever vexed her as much as her youngest child. That John, prince regent of the realm, was dissolute, irresponsible, and untrustworthy, not even his mother could deny. Though several years past his thirtieth birthday, John was still more child than man, at least in temperament. But these were faults that she had seen in his father, and, though Eleanor was loath to admit it, in his brother, the king, as well. Perhaps not to the same degree, but certainly Richard could be as debauched and irresponsible as any man of the court. What was it about men in power that rendered them utterly sapless when confronted by a flask of Benedictine wine and the comely girl serving it?
What troubled her most about John wasn't so much his weakness of character as his utter lack of kingly qualities. He lacked his father's subtlety and wit, he wasn't charming or gracious like his brother Henry, and he had shown no sign of possessing even a fraction of Richard's courage. Treachery, malice, pride— these he had in abundance. But Eleanor feared for England if ever John should ascend to the throne. At least as he was now. Perhaps it was motherly weakness, but she still entertained some hope of changing him, of helping him grow into the promise that flowed in his blood. She would have to act quickly, though. She had learned all too well that none of her issue could live forever, not even her Lionheart.
Turning a corner onto the hallway of John's bedchambers, Eleanor saw his wife, Princess Isabel of Gloucester, stooped before John's door. Isabel was a nice enough girl, but she was no more fit to be queen consort than John was to be king. Eleanor supposed the girl was pretty, though none would have called her beautiful, but she was vapid. And one had only to see her now, outside her husband's bedchamber, listening at the man's keyhole, to know how weak she was.
Eleanor cleared her throat as she approached, not wishing to give the girl too much of a start.
Isabel straightened and turned, all in one swift, whirling motion. Seeing Eleanor, she staggered back several steps, clearly intimidated.
“Your Majesty!” the girl said breathlessly.
“Your Royal Highness,” Eleanor answered, unable to keep the disdain from her voice. “An English princess shut out of her husband's bedroom by a piece of French pastry. Aren't you ashamed?”
The girl raised her chin, showing more spirit than Eleanor had expected. “The shame is surely his.”
“If you think so, go in and tell him.” The words were hard, but Eleanor said them with somewhat more sympathy than she had been inclined to offer moments before. “Mewling at his keyhole is neither one thing nor the other.”
She brushed the girl aside and opened John's door.
Immediately, Eleanor heard giggles and she turned toward her son's bed. The cover was stretched over the length of the bed, clearly concealing two bodies. She could see two pairs of hands gripping the cover at the head of the bed, and now, in unison, they flipped the cover upward so that it billowed over them before descending again. More giggles followed this, and the hands flipped the cover a second time.
Eleanor had had enough. She strode to the bed, gripped the cover and tore it back, revealing John and a very pretty girl who, despite her good looks, appeared to be barely more than a child. Eleanor knew her to be called Isabella. She was heir to the countship of Angouleme in France, and she was also the great granddaughter of France's King Louis the Sixth, who happened to have been the father of Eleanor's first husband.
The girl stared up at Eleanor, her eyes wide, her mouth opened in a small “O.”
“Ma'mselle,” Eleanor said. “You will excuse us. My son has need of my advice.”
“No, I don't!” John said. He tipped his head toward the French girl. “Ask hen” He threw the cover back over Isabella's head. “Have you no decency?” he went on, glaring defiantly at Eleanor. “I happen to be in a condition no mother should see her son in.”
Isabella pushed the cover off her head and pouted reproachfully at John. “Helas, c'est finis!” Alas, it is over!
John looked at her, clearly wounded. “Yes, but it's my mother!”
“Enough!” Eleanor snapped, making both John and Isabella jump. “On second thought,” Eleanor told the French girl, “you had better hear what I have to say. But I will not have you in my presence.” She grabbed the cover and threw it over the girl yet again. She turned her attention back to John. “My purpose in your bedroom is to save the realm from the consequences of an unsuitable … amusement.”
“Unsuitable?” John said. “Her uncle is the bloody King of France!”
Again, Isabella popped her head out from under the cover. “C'est vrai!” It's true! “Mon oncle is the—”
Eleanor glared at her. “Get down!”
The girl dove back under the cover.
“Her uncle wants her back,” Eleanor told her son. “Philip wants an excuse to cross the channel with an army, and you are giving him that excuse. Take up your lawful wife and save England.”
“My lawful wife is as barren as a brick,” John said, raising his voice, no doubt knowing that the poor girl was in the corridor. Eleanor thought she heard a small whimper from beyond the bedroom door.
“Is that the wife you truly want for me?” John asked. “You, who honored your husband with eight children so that even now, when death has taken the rest, you have a king and the runt of the litter to call you mother?”
Eleanor felt her own cheeks burn. It was one thing to think of her son as the runt; it was quite another to hear him speak so of himself.
“Better none than bastards,” she said, gathering herself. “And better the bastard of a servant girl than bed the niece of England's jealous enemy.”
“Bed her and wed her, Mother. I've asked the Pope's man to arrange an annulment.”
This was met with another soft sob from the corridor.
But John had Eleanor's attention. Perhaps there was more to the man than she credited. “Do you think the Pope will favor England's royal runt over the King of France?”
John actually grinned at her. “He might see his way for the son of Eleanor of Aquitaine.”
The girl practically leaped out from beneath the covers, revealing a body that was not quite so childlike as her face. “And for King John of England!” she said. “Richard Coeur-de-Lion is forty years if not more, and no babies. I am a queen in the making.”
John's grin broadened and he looked up at Eleanor again, seeming to realize that he had gained the advantage. “You see? She is my Eleanor.”
Isabella, blushing furiously, had covered herself. But she met Eleanor's gaze steadily. “Your Majesty,” she said, an apology of a sort.
Eleanor regarded her anew. It seemed there was more to this one, too. It would be easy t
o cast aside the weak girl in the corridor. But this one had spirit. “Princesse,” Eleanor said at last, drawing a small smile from Isabella, and from John.
THE CAMP OF Richard's crusading army awoke slowly, like some great slumbering beast, belching smoke from cooking fires and the field kitchen. Grooms began to tend to the horses; footmen ran back and forth between store carts and campfires. Pickets cast a wary eye toward the besieged French castle.
Robert Loxley tried to stretch the night from his war-weary bones as he waited outside King Richard's pavilion, watching for any sign that someone stirred within. A squire arrived with a folding table, opened it, and set it upon the ground beside Robert. Loxley handed the man his map, which the squire spread over the table. Robert looked toward the king's tent once more, frowning. Surely the king had to be awake by now.
But still Loxley waited.
THEY CALLED HIM Coeur de Lion. The Lionheart. The Saracens had referred to him as Malek al-Inkitar, the King of the English. At one time or another he had been Duke of Normandy and of Aquitaine and of Gascony, Lord of Ireland and Cyprus, Count of Anjou, Maine, and Nantes. His mother had called him Richard.
What would she call him now?
The sounds of the soldiers outside his pavilion reached him as if from a great distance and he tried to wake himself up. But slumber filled him, like the wine he had drunk the night before; both sleep and drink drained slowly from his head and his belly.
His valet entered the pavilion. The lad should have tapped on the outside first, should have waited for Richard's leave to enter. But they both knew that Richard hadn't been up long enough to do much more than grunt. The boy placed a tray on the camp table beside Richard's bed. Opening one eye, Richard saw that it held a pitcher and beaker. Water. Yes, the lad was right. Water would help with the ashes in his mouth and the pounding of his head. While Richard forced himself up to a sitting position, the boy poured water into the cup and held it out to him. The king took it in a shaking hand and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply, his eyes closed. When he'd had his fill he nodded and the boy took the beaker from him.
Taking a breath, Richard stood, swayed a bit, then steadied himself. He stripped off his stale, wine-stained shirt, his breeches, his underclothes, until he stood naked in the cold air and the dim light. The valet placed a basin in front of him, and Richard leaned over it while the boy poured a pitcher of fire-warmed water over his head, his torso, his limbs. Richard rubbed at his skin, trying to bring life back into his bones. He was too young to feel so worn, so weary. Once, not long ago, he had been a sight to behold. A king in body and aspect as well as in title. Now his body ached. His hair, which once had fallen to his shoulders in golden waves, now hung limp and dank. His face was a ruin of what it once had been, ravaged by the years and the miles and more battles than he cared to count.
The Lionheart, indeed.
His valet handed him a towel and Richard dried himself ruthlessly, as if he might scour the years from his skin. Next the boy brought him his clothes: clean undergarments, clean breeches, a tunic emblazoned with the red and gold crest of his family. Then his boots, his chain mail, his belt and sword. With each article of clothing, with each piece of his armor, he felt the night receding; he felt more himself. When, at last, the boy handed him the crown, and Richard placed it on his head, he was able to muster a smile and a wink for the lad. The valet smiled back at him and bowed.
Richard looked toward the pavilion door. Sunlight seeped in around the edges of the opening, and Richard steeled himself. It was going to be bright and loud. He looked the part now, but he would have preferred to sleep another hour or two. What he really wanted was a cup of wine.
CHAPTER
THREE
The sun had risen into a clear, bright morning sky, and the entirety of the English army had gathered outside Richard's pavilion. Foot soldiers, archers, knights; all of them arrayed in their companies, all of them staring at the king's tent, expectant, silent. Banners had been raised. Pennants flew in the morning breeze. Trumpeters stood ready, their horns gleaming. Just off to the side, Richard's white charger stood beside his groom, the creature resplendent in the royal colors.
Robert Loxley had mounted his horse, and waited with the other knights for the king to emerge from the tent. His armor, like that of the men sitting their horses on either side of him, had been polished to a high shine, and the red and gold insignia on his surcoat seemed to glow in the sunlight.
When at last the canvas at the pavilion entrance was swept aside and Richard stepped out into the morning, Loxley nodded to the trumpeters, who began immediately to blow their fanfare. The men let out a mighty roar, raising their weapons and pounding their shields.
The king, who had squinted at the brightness of the sun, winced now, squeezing his eyes shut and screwing up his face in pain. Loxley nearly laughed to see his liege so hungover. But he heard something in the cheering of Richard's warriors change, and the sound sobered him. It was one thing for him to know how much Richard had imbibed the night before. It was quite another for his men to realize it.
“For the love of Christ, Loxley!” Richard roared over the “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” of the men. “Would you stop them doing that! My head's going like the bells of hell!”
Loxley nodded to the groom, who led Richard's charger over to the king. Seeing this, the men quieted down. Robert also beckoned to the nearest knight and instructed him to take the other knights and prepare the king's forces to renew their assault on the French fortress. In short order Loxley and Richard were as alone as two men could be in the midst of the English army.
Richard eyed the castle, squinting again. His breath still smelled of wine. “Is that it?” he asked, indicating the castle with a nod. “It looked bigger last night.”
“One more castle to sack, Sire, and home to England.”
The king's expression remained sour. “From crusading to debt collecting, Loxley! We have taken cities and put thousands to the sword in Palestine, and I end up robbing a Frenchman so that I can return home with something to show for years of campaigning.” He swung himself onto his mount. “Let's hope he is as rich as rumor has it.”
The white charger reared, pawing the air, prancing gracefully. Loxley saw men pointing, awe on their faces, and he had no doubt that from a distance, in that moment, the king looked as regal as he had in years. But none of the men were close enough to see Richard wince again at the pounding of his head, or to hear him growl at the horse, “Don't do that, you whore!”
The Lionheart spurred his horse to a canter, and Robert Loxley rode after him, following his liege to battle once more.
WHILE HUNDREDS OF their fellow soldiers watched from beyond crossbow range, cheering and shouting encouragement, Robin, Will, and Allan, and dozens of their fellow archers crept toward the castle, joined by several men carrying leather sacks filled with flammable naphtha. They moved in small companies, each group of men carrying a barn door over their heads, as if they were tortoises bearing a giant shell. It was slow going, and Robin's back and legs ached with the effort of carrying the damn thing. But before long they would be within range of the French bowmen on the castle walls, and he would be thankful for the cover.
Ahead of his group, a battering ram rumbled up the slope toward the castle's portcullis. Overlapping shields covered the ram like dragon scales, protecting the men within as they pushed it forward, the muscles in their arms and necks bulging with the effort. The soldier leading them, a man known simply as Little John, was as powerfully built as any man Robin had seen in his travels. His arms were as thick as oak limbs, his shoulders as broad as the wings of an eagle. He had the look of a brute and was as strong as any three men in the king's army. Robin had seen him on the battlefield, and so knew that John was a fearsome warrior. He had also sat across from him at a gambler's table and shared more than a little whiskey with him. John was a good sort, but usually had little success at games of chance. Just the kind of man Robin liked.
; He saw Little John look up at the castle now, as if gauging the progress he and his company had made with the ram.
“Whoa!” John called. “Close enough!”
The ram slowed, then halted. The men within straightened and tried to catch their breath. All except John, who barely looked winded.
As Robin's company walked past, still under the protection of the barn door, Little John caught Robin's eye.
“Hoy, archer!”
Will and Allan looked over at the man.
“Stay alive!” John said. “I'll see you tonight!”
Robin grinned. “Make sure you bring your money, little man.”
Will gestured obscenely at the man, drawing a smile from Little John.
Moments later, the first crossbow bolt embedded itself in the door with a loud thwack. Within a few seconds bolts and arrows were raining down on them. Cheers and war cries went up from the French and were answered by the English soldiers behind Robin and his men. King Richard rode forward on his magnificent white charger, seemingly heedless of the volleys coming from the enemy fortress. He hefted a spear, snagged an English flag on its point, and spurred his horse to a gallop toward the castle gate.