by Jude Chapman
“Not where you’re concerned, mon ange.”
“But they matter to him. In time he will confess his carnal sins, on his knees and weeping, first before his God and then before his king.”
Richard arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps to his God, but never to his king. Andreas Capellanus may be a fool when it comes to practicing the art of courtly love, but not so much a fool as to admit it.”
Her face contorted. “You will go to Hell for your sins, dear husband not.”
“We are all destined for Hell. Especially the mad.”
She ignored the innuendo and spewed, “And who have you chosen for your new bride? Does she have dark hair? A dark face? A well-endowed bosom? A dark king for a father?”
“Don’t forget youth. And above all, purity.”
She snarled and spit out, “Berengaria of Navarre. The most ripe, most beauteous, most virtuous virgin of the nether regions. And the granddaughter of my grandfather. It would be humorous if it weren’t so tragic. Her father and my aunt’s husband are the same man, the incomparable King Sancho of Navarre. He has outdone himself. His sword, his might, and his oiled Spanish tongue have won him a place in history, not to mention progeny who will infect Aquitaine for generations to come. Is it not ironic? Is it not delicious? That you have traded one Castilian princess for another? Aren’t you afraid that insanity runs in the blood? Don’t you fear spawning lunatic daughters and crazed sons? Cannot the riches of Hell thwart the powers of Heaven?” Her laughter was the laughter of the demented.
“And does your brother know?”
“He will when—” She stopped herself on a note of premature triumph.
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him, dear sister.” He loomed closed to her and stroked a finger along her cheek. She reared from the touch. “Your Brabançon lover … my God, how many bedmates does it take to kill one king? … reached you too late with the news of your cousin’s impending marriage.”
“And what of your most high, your most gallant, your most interfering chevalier de ce moment? Hmm? Whom I seduced equal to any stupid monk, prince, or routier?”
It was the second time Alais had accused Stephen. Richard turned toward him, expecting a denial at best, an uneasy explanation at worst.
With care Stephen put down the wine and the wineskin. “It is true, what she says. She appealed to my … vanity. She flattered me with her … feminine wiles. She suggested we might be together if something fatal were to befall the king. I took her suggestions for what they were: nonsense. I didn’t understand they were anything but nonsense … until it was too late.”
“Since I could not use you in one way, dear Stephen, I found another. Were you dreaming of me all those weeks alone in the dark? Pleasuring yourself with memories of our blissful nights together? The kisses? The caresses? The promises of love? The pleasurable touch of—”
“They were nightmares!” Stephen bellowed. And dropping to a knee, he knelt humbly before the king, his arms braced on an upraised leg, his head bowed, and the nape of his neck exposed. “I am guilty of high treason against the king. First by taking that which did not belong to me and what was most dear to the king and the king’s honor. And then by endangering his life, not so much by commission as omission, which carries a greater penalty. I take the bitter with the sweet. I submit to the king’s justice. Here and now.”
* * *
Richard made an abrupt gesture. The tent flaps parted. Alais was hustled into the custody of the king’s guard and spirited away.
With Stephen’s silence, the general silence expanded. Day was ending. The setting sun filled the king’s pavilion with dusky shadows. The hum of awakening insects mingled with faraway voices. A sword of sharpest edge rang from its scabbard.
Sniffing the tang of steel, Drake shot up and shouted, “No!”
“Silence!” Richard said.
Chauvigny and Béthune each clasped one of Drake’s arms and held him at bay. “Milord,” Drake begged, struggling to break away. “You can’t!”
His color high, his jaw set, and his eyes afire, Richard stepped around to Stephen’s back and lifted the sword two-fisted.
“Three breaths separate us. If you kill one, you must kill the other. I beg of you! Let me kneel beside my brother.”
“You shall not!” Richard steadied the sword.
“He’s lying, I tell you!” Drake dragged on his arms, but the knights held him fast. “He would never—”
“May God damn me to Hell if I am not speaking the truth!” Stephen looked soulfully at his brother. His eyes—colorless in the waning light—glistened pure and virtuous. He had made his peace with God, and with his king. He was prepared to die.
“Then damn you to that everlasting Hell of yours, dear brother, but I will get there afore you, since my sins are greater than yours.” Drake dropped to his knee and beseeched his king. “Will you execute a man whose only crime is that of protecting his brother?”
Drake’s comment brought Richard up short. “Protecting?”
“It was I who betrayed you, milord. It was I who took what was not mine. Worse than that, I took it in the name of my brother, pretending I was him.”
“Drake!” Stephen shouted. “Don’t! Not for me! Save yourself!”
“Your bride-to-be propositioned me. Not Stephen. Me and me alone.”
“He’s lying,” Stephen shouted. “Drake is protecting me! I won’t let him!”
“It’s true what I say,” Drake said. “May God strike me down where I kneel if it is not!”
Eyes stern and narrowed, the gray washed out with wrath, Richard stepped away from the younger fitzAlan brother and approached the elder brother. Once again, he swung back the sword.
Drake bowed his head. He wanted to say a final prayer and ask for God’s forgiveness. But he could not think past the sensation of cold steel hovering above his neck.
Stephen said, “If that is so, and I declare it is not … so help me God! … I am no less guilty. Three breaths separate us and ever will. Allow me kneel beside my brother. And take me three breaths after him so we can leave this world the way we came into it. For if you execute Drake, I shall follow him to the grave, by my own hand if need be.”
“You shall not!” Richard said a second time.
“Two halves to a whole—that is what we are to each other—and ever shall be,” Stephen said, his voice husky. “Nothing can separate us. Not even the might of the king.”
Drake held his sight to the ground beneath his knee and said with a voice filled with dread, “I implore your majesty. Take me and spare my brother.”
“If you take either, milord,” said Devon of Wheeling, “you must also take me.” Circling around, he dropped to a knee at Drake’s right and submitted his eyes humbly to the ground.
The shadow of the king’s sword cast a giant shadow on the canvas walls. The sheeting fluttered in a breeze, distorting the straightness of the blade. The steel began to descend.
“And me!” said Chauvigny, stepping forward. “I also knew of fitzAlan’s recklessness … whichever fitzAlan it was … and kept my own counsel.” He kneeled beside Devon.
The sword maintained its position.
“Milord,” said Béthune. “If not for the fitzAlans, you would have already met your Maker thrice over. I join my fellows.” And he knelt at Chauvigny’s side.
The sword lowered a notch.
De Fors stepped forward and said with reluctance, “I value my head, but …” And taking a breath of courage, continued, “I stand with the fitzAlans. They have been punished enough, and in spite of all, have served you well.” He took a place beside Béthune.
“Am I to fight you all then?” Richard said.
“Or none,” Chauvigny responded.
“After six heads roll, what am I to do for an encore?”
“Take the heads of both your brothers?” Chauvigny suggested.
“And not my betrothed?”
Casting his eyes downward, Chauvigny made a broad one-han
ded gesture. “That goes without saying, milord. She would make a pretty decoration.”
“And you, Clarendon? You do not wish to kneel with your countrymen and make this a true spectacle?”
“I will lose my head in any case.”
“How right you are!” Richard said, and swore to God in his Heaven.
“If I may speak further,” ventured Chauvigny.
“You have spoken quite enough already!” The sword yet gripped in his mighty hand, Richard moved away from Drake and stood before Stephen.
Drake glanced toward his brother to bid a final farewell, but since Stephen willfully affixed his eyes on the ground before him, their parting would have to come in the spirit world.
His voice resonant and full of authority, the king spoke. “I, Richard, by the grace of God, king of England, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou and also of Poitou …” Here he took a girding breath that presaged the verdict of a knight’s treason and the proclamation of his unmediated death. The sword Excalibur came to rest on Stephen’s shoulder. “… do hereby grant Stephen fitzAlan, son of William fitzAlan and Philippia d’Aquitaine, custody of the castle of Poitiers, the ancestral home of my dear mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, as well as the sum total of the rents derived therefrom, and of the properties and lands and privileges adherent. This honor I do bestow as pitiful payment for the most noble of services rendered to the person of the king by said knight, that of saving his life and of serving him faithfully in the face of his enemies.”
The sword Excalibur sang home.
“Arise Lord fitzAlan, and take your place in the company of men.”
Epilogue
TWO MEN DROWNED on that fateful day. Several dozen suffered lacerations, bruises, broken bones, and cracked skulls. The rest rose out of the waters like Stephen and Drake, soggy and spent. But none attained the dignity of soul as Stephen fitzAlan.
Three days of hard work came and went before a flotilla of boats, deftly organized by Richard himself, hastened the crossing of those men trapped on the wrong side of the Rhône.
Ten days later, Drake and Stephen fitzAlan delivered to Rouen Castle a subdued Alais Capét de France: daughter of one king, brother of a second king, betrothed of a third king, lover of a fourth king, niece of a fifth king, and deserted, ignored, dismissed, spurned, or betrayed by each in turn.
The castellan personally escorted the royal princess to the tower with Drake and Stephen accompanying their charge to the end. Alais spun on a heel. Her peasant’s gown, bought from a laundress to better conceal her identity; her wind-strewn hair, which she hadn’t bothered to braid; and her filthy hands, which showed the ligatures of her bonds, together painted the picture of a downfallen woman. In the dark of the turret chamber, the bright sapphire eyes glittered with twin emotions of defeat and malice. She said not a word. The heavy door swung shut, sealing her within. The key turning in the iron lock was the final death knell of her reversed wheel of fortune.
Stephen and Drake fitzAlan emerged into the bright Normandy sunshine. Each bore a few more scars, both of flesh and of spirit, than when they had taken this same road five months before.
“Must I call you Lord fitzAlan?” Drake asked.
“Aye,” Stephen said. “Like a prayer, morning and evening, while licking my boots.”
Drake threw a punch. Stephen deftly deflected it. And the brothers gripped each other with solid embraces.
Breaking apart, they mounted their twin dappled grays in timed unison and appraised one another. Each saw what anyone could see. Untamed hair bleached by hours in the sun. Clear seawater eyes reflecting a depth of maturity for ones so young. Windblown cheeks chiseled with determination. Lines of athleticism sharpened with a sense of purpose. And wide brows stamped with intelligence.
But there were some characteristics others could not see. Loyalty to start. Virtue on occasion. Stamina when it was needed. Weakness when they couldn’t help themselves. Humor when it suited them. And a spirit for adventure.
Twin smiles rose to their lips. In concert, they spurred their light-bright Arabians and took the southern route to rendezvous with their king in Marseille, and from there, to sail to their destinies, waiting and unknown.
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THE END
Author’s Notes
I hope you enjoyed reading Crown of the Realm as much as I enjoyed writing it. This second book in the White Knight series was written almost 15 years ago and has been gathering dust ever since. I am glad to finally let it see the light of day.
The White Knight Adventures came about the day I decided to write a historical novel. As a fan of several great historical authors whose words bring to life people, places, and other times, I researched various eras and historical figures. Taking into account my love of English history and French culture, I settled on the Medieval Age and the volatile Plantagenêts, who embraced war and poetry in equal measure while building an empire of legends.
After devouring countless books about King Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, King Richard, and the rest of their squabbling family, I took the trip of a lifetime and visited many of the sites featured in this novel, including Limoges, Chinon, Chalus, Vézelay, and also Poitiers, where Eleanor held court among troubadours and planted the concept of fin’amor for all time.
Drake and Stephen fitzAlan, Aveline Darcy, Mallory d’Amboise, Botolphe, Mercadier, and Devon of Wheeling are fictional characters. The remaining nobles, knights, and royals are fixed in history.
Alais Capét’s treachery against King Richard and her incarceration in the tower of Rouen Castle is fictitious, though her long engagement, rumors of infidelity with Richard’s father, and ultimate rejection by Richard in favor of Berengaria of Navarre is part of history. She eventually married Count William II of Ponthieu in August 1195 and had a daughter, Marie. King Philippe continued to hound Richard for the return of Alais’ dowry—the Comté of Vexin—which Richard never did but John eventually lost after Richard’s death.
Credit for the ‘love’ quotations goes to Andreas Capellanus, taken from his Treatise on Love, or The Art of Courtly Love, written about 1181 at the insistence of Comtesse Marie of Champagne, the firstborn daughter of Eleanor of Aquitaine.
For the scandalous words put into Gui d’Ussel’s mouth, apologies to Aimeri Picaud, a monk from Poitou who, in the 12th century, wrote a guidebook for pilgrims journeying to Santiago Compostela, in which he described the peoples one would encounter on the way.
Gui’s song was written by Maria de Torena, probably several years after the events in this book.
Translations for Maria’s Song by Bertran de Born and the Lovers’ Duet by Alamanda d’Estancs and Guiraut de Bornelh are from The Women Troubadours by Meg Bogin, W.W. Norton & Co., 1980.
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About Jude
You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl. Born and raised in Chicago USA, I may be a suburban transplant but my heart still lives in the ‘city of big shoulders’ by the lake. I earned a degree in education from Northwestern University, taught briefly in a Chicago public high school, and went on to work for big business. My writing veers off into many tangents. Sometimes I’m a romance author. Sometimes a mystery writer. Sometimes an author of suspense. And other times a writer of historical fiction. I also write blogs, screenplays, and nonfiction books. In my spare time, I like to … come to think, I don’t have any spare time.
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Books by Jude Chapman
MIDNIGHT WEDDING (romance) – A recent widow becomes involved in the romantic complications of her fancy-free cabdriver.
THE GREEN-EYED DICK (mystery) – A beat reporter dodges bullets, car chases, and irresistible guys to track down the kil
ler who shot the mayor’s right-hand man in a house of prostitution.
TRICK OF THE MIND (psychological suspense) – A young wife who fears she’s losing her mind soon discovers there are some things worse than madness.
SWORD OF JUSTICE (historical romance) – A disgraced knight tests his mettle to save king and kingdom
CROWN OF THE REALM (historical romance) – A knight on the run must defend his family without sacrificing his honor
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