“Yes,” Llewelyn agreed. “I know.” And signaling to two of his men, he said, “Strip him of his armor.”
Walter scrambled to his feet, began to back away. In that instant his fear of humiliation was greater than his fear of death, and his eyes darted to the dagger in Llewelyn’s belt. For a mad moment he saw himself lunging for it, plunging the blade into Llewelyn’s chest, and racing for the woods.
But his was an easy face to read. Llewelyn felt a sudden surge of excitement. “It is your choice, Walter,” he said softly, almost encouragingly.
Walter’s throat muscles contracted; he had not enough saliva to swallow. The realization that Llewelyn wanted him to go for the knife was a lifeline back to sanity. Appalled by what he’d almost done, he sagged against the nearest tree.
“I swear by all the saints that you’ll regret this day,” he said, choking on his hatred, and Rhys lost all patience. In three strides he’d crossed the clearing, had his dagger poised at Walter’s throat.
“Are you so eager to die, English?” he demanded. “Think you that we need an excuse to claim your life?”
“He does not speak Welsh, Rhys;” Llewelyn said, amused, and Rhys smiled grimly.
“Mayhap not, but he understands me well enough.”
Walter had lost all color; a vein showed at his temple, throbbing wildly against skin damp with sweat.
“Yes,” Llewelyn conceded. “I daresay he does!” Glancing up at the darkening sky, he realized that they’d already tarried here too long, and he moved toward Walter’s men. “You understand what was said?”
Godfrey had been staring at Walter de Hodnet, eyes glittering. Now he looked up at Llewelyn, nodded, and then grinned. “Merci,” he said, and then gestured toward Walter, adding something in English which Llewelyn did not understand; he caught only a name, Giles.
But time was on his uncle’s side; some of the fleeing soldiers might have reached Rhuddlan by now. He still held Chester’s dispatch. Unsheathing his dagger, he slashed at the parchment until it hung in tattered ribbons. Handing it to the wide-eyed Edwin, he said in slow, deliberate French, “Here, lad. Give this to Montalt. And tell him that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth has a message for Chester: Stay out of Wales.”
Edwin could not envision himself ever giving a message like that to a Norman lord, and he was much relieved when his cousin said, “I’d like nothing better, my lord!”
Edwin released his breath, clutched the shredded parchment to his chest. Godfrey would keep faith with the young Welsh lord, and he was glad, for they owed this man their lives. He doubted that the Earl of Chester would heed the warning, would stay out of Wales. But he would, he thought, with sudden resolve. He was going home. Home to Aldford.
6
Lisieux, Normandy
May 1194
In January 1194, Queen Eleanor reached Germany with the one hundred thousand silver marks demanded as ransom for her son’s freedom. Richard was finally released on February 4, one year and six weeks after he’d been taken captive in Austria. By March he was once more upon English soil, where he set about extinguishing the embers of his brother John’s rebellion. John’s castles of Tickhill and Nottingham fell to him within a fortnight, and on March 31 he summoned John to appear before his great council. John was given forty days to answer the charges of treason. He defied the summons, did not appear, and on May 10 he was outlawed, declared to have forfeited any claims to the Angevin crown, and then stripped of the earldoms of Gloucester and Mortain, of his castles, estates, and manors in England and Normandy.
Two days later, Richard and Eleanor sailed from Portsmouth. Landing at Barfleur, they headed south into Normandy. After lingering a few days at Caen, they moved on to Lisieux, where they were greeted with excessive affability by Archdeacon John de Alençon, Richard’s vice-chancellor, and there joined by Joanna Plantagenet, sister to Richard, daughter to Eleanor, young widow of William the Good, King of Sicily.
“…and after I set up a gallows before the walls of Nottingham Castle, hanged a score of John’s men, and left them for the ravens, the others lost their taste for treason, moved out even faster than the ravens moved in!”
“What of Johnny, Richard? Have you any word as to his whereabouts?”
“Oh, I know exactly where John is, Joanna—skulking about the French court. He fled to Paris months ago, after Philip sent him warning that my release was imminent. ‘Look to yourself; the Devil is loose,’” Richard quoted with relish, and then laughed.
Joanna laughed, too. “This has not been one of Philip’s better years, what with your return and his troubles with the Pope.”
“What is the straight of that, Jo? The garbled account I heard did not seem likely to me, that Philip sought to repudiate his Queen the day after their marriage.”
“Likely or not, it’s true enough. They were wed at Amiens last August, and the very next day Philip disavowed the marriage, refused to recognize Ingeborg as his Queen. When she balked at being shipped back to Denmark like defective goods, Philip convened a council of French bishops at Compiègne, got them to declare the marriage null and void, then confined Ingeborg to a nunnery. But the Danish King did not take kindly to this, and he appealed to the Pope on his sister’s behalf. I expect His Holiness will order Philip to take Ingeborg back, but Philip is nothing if not stubborn, and I’m not sure he’ll yield even if the Pope does lay France under Interdict.”
“Jesú, the idiot, the utter idiot!” Richard shook his head in amused amazement. “Mayhap I ought to ask him if he wants to send Ingeborg to me at Rouen. We could pen her up with Alais, split the cost of their upkeep!”
He laughed again. In the shadows behind him, Archdeacon Alençon could not hide his disapproval. After a moment, his eyes shifted from Richard to the woman at his side. Eleanor was watching her son, a faint smile curving her mouth. It was not a smile to give Alençon comfort, reminding him what an implacable enemy this woman made. Upon gaining her own freedom, one of her first acts had been to declare an amnesty for those imprisoned in English jails, declaring that she knew from personal experience “how irksome it was to be a prisoner.” And yet she’d shown no pity at all for the woman confined for five years now at her son’s command, the unfortunate Alais, who’d been raised at her court, had come to womanhood in her husband’s bed.
But it was too late to worry about Eleanor’s enmity. He’d chosen to gamble, could only hope he’d not made a fool’s wager. Moving closer, he murmured, “Madame, might I have a few moments alone with you? I’ve a matter most urgent to discuss.”
Eleanor felt no surprise. She had a sharp eye for the unease of others, and Alençon’s overly hearty welcome put her in mind of a man whistling his way past a graveyard. She asked no questions, came unobtrusively to her feet and followed Alençon from the hall.
The Archdeacon’s manor was a substantial structure of stone and timber, rising up two stories on the bank of the River Touques. It was to an upper chamber that Alençon led Eleanor, stepping aside so she could enter first. As she did, he closed the door quietly behind her. Eleanor stood very still, staring at the man by the unshuttered window, silhouetted against a twilight sky of soft, shadowed lavender.
“Mother,” he said at last, so low she could not be sure he’d spoken at all.
There was an oil lamp sputtering on a trestle table. She reached for it, took several strides forward into the room, held it up so that the smoky light fell across his face.
John blinked, flinched away from the sudden illuminating glare. His mother’s face was impassive, but her eyes pinned him to the wall, amber ice in which he could read the reflection of his every sin, could read accusation and indictment, but no hint of absolution.
He forgot entirely his carefully rehearsed plea of explanation and atonement. When the silence had become more than he could endure, he blurted out, “You know why I’m here. I need you to speak for me. You’re the one person Richard would be likely to heed.”
“I daresay you’re right. But whatev
er makes you think I would?”
Eleanor set the lamp on the table, turned back to her silent son. “At least you’ve shown you’re not the utter coward Richard thinks you to be; he was sure you’d not dare leave the sanctuary of the French court. Although how you’d have the nerve to face him after all you’ve done—allying yourself with your brother’s sworn enemy against your own House; promising to wed your father’s harlot and to cede the Vexin back to Philip in return for his support; hiring Welsh mercenaries and seeking to stir up a rising in England; doing your damnedest to sabotage the collection of Richard’s ransom. And when all else failed, joining with Philip in offering to better Richard’s ransom if the German Emperor would but hold Richard for another year. Have I left anything out?”
“No,” he said shortly, unwillingly.
“Well, then, suppose you tell me why I should want to help you escape the punishment you so deserve, why I should raise even a finger on your behalf. And do spare me any maudlin pleas about you being flesh of my flesh; you’ll have to do better than that, John…much better.”
John drew an uneven breath. “Nothing has changed since that night we talked in Southampton. Your hopes for an Angevin dynasty are not going to take root with Richard’s seed. He’s not laid eyes upon his wife in nigh on two years, did not even bother to summon her to England upon his return. Unless you are counting upon another Virgin Birth, Madame, I suggest that leads us right back to Arthur or me, a child of seven or a man grown of twenty-six.”
“Yes,” she said icily. “But the child is as yet unformed clay; who knows what manner of man he may become? Whereas we already know the man you are, John.”
John was not as impervious to insult as he’d have her think; he betrayed himself with rising color. “Yes, you do—a man who knows what he wants and will fight to keep what is his. Can you say as much for Arthur? I might make use of Philip’s help if it serves my need, but we’ll see the Second Coming ere I’d trust him out of my sight. But Arthur? His advisers wax fat on French gold, look to Paris for guidance the way infidels do look to Mecca. He’d be Philip’s puppet and you well know it, Madame. Just as you know I would not.”
“What I want to know,” she said, “is how you can be shrewd enough to see all that and yet stupid enough to fall in with Philip’s schemes, to so disregard my promise…and my warning.”
Her tone was barbed; each word carried a separate sting. And yet John sensed he’d gained some ground. “For what it’s worth, I fully meant to hold to our understanding.”
“Why did you not, then?”
“The truth? Because Richard’s capture unbalanced the equation. I truly did not think he’d ever come back, not with the enemies he’s made. I saw the crown up for the taking, and so…” He shrugged. “I put in my bid. What more can I tell you?”
Eleanor’s mouth twitched. “Credit where due, you can surprise. I was curious as to what your last line of defense would be. But I admit I did not expect you to fall back upon honesty!”
With that, John no longer hesitated. “Well?” he said. “Will you help me, Mother? Will you intercede with Richard on my behalf?”
She gave him a look he could not interpret. “I already have.”
John’s relief was intense but ephemeral. So this whole scene had been yet another of her damnable games, he thought resentfully, a stupid charade as meaningless as it was malicious.
“Richard can be unpredictable, so there are no guarantees. But he did agree that if you came to him, he’d hear you out. It might help,” she added dryly, “if you sought to appear somewhat contrite.”
She started toward the door, stopped when he made no move to follow. “What are you waiting for? Richard’s below in the great hall; now would be as good a time as any.”
“The great hall?” John echoed in dismay. He thought it penance enough to have to humble his pride before Richard, was not about to put on a performance for a hall full of witnesses. But as he opened his mouth to protest, he caught the contempt in his mother’s eyes. She was like Richard, he knew, in that she, too, was one for setting tests and traps for people, measuring their worth by standards that made no allowance for frailties or failure. Richard judged a man by his willingness to bleed, to risk his life upon the thrust of a sword. With his mother, the test was more subtle and yet more demanding. She might forgive deceit and betrayal, but never weakness, would expect above all else that a man be willing to answer for the consequences of his actions.
“I suppose you’re right.” He moved away from the window, gave her a crooked smile. “What was it the Christian martyrs always said before they were thrown to the lions? Morituri te salutamus?”
“Your command of Latin is not bad, but your grasp of history is rather weak. ‘We who are about to die salute you’ was the battle cry of the Roman gladiators, not the Christian martyrs. We can safely say you have no yearning whatsoever for martyrdom, but it will be interesting, nonetheless, to see how you handle yourself in the lion’s den.” Eleanor’s laugh was not in the least maternal, but John knew he’d pulled back from the brink in time, had scrambled to safety even as the ground seemed sure to crumble under his feet.
Men stared at sight of John, fell suddenly silent. Eleanor stepped aside so that he stood alone. Richard was sitting on the dais at the far end of the hall. John hesitated, then began the longest walk of his life. So quiet it was that he could hear the scuffling sound his boots made as they trod upon the floor rushes, hear the clinking of his sword in its scabbard—even hear, or so he imagined, the thudding of his own heart. Richard had not moved, was watching him approach, eyes narrowed and utterly opaque. John stopped before the dais, slowly unbuckled his scabbard, and laid it upon the steps. Then he knelt.
“My liege.” In the brief time allotted to him for calculation, he’d decided that candor was his best hope. It had served him well with his mother, and might, if he was lucky, appease Richard, too. In truth, what other choice did he have? For what could he possibly say that Richard would believe?
“I can offer you no excuses, Richard. I can only ask for your forgiveness. I know I’ve given you no reason to—” He stopped in mid-sentence, for he’d just recognized the woman seated at Richard’s left, a slim woman with green eyes and reddish gold hair gleaming under a silvery gossamer veil, a woman he’d not seen for eighteen years. His sister Joanna.
“I’m surprised to see you here, John. Frankly, I did not think you’d have the nerve. I was not surprised, however, by your treachery, by your willingness to snap at Philip’s bait. You’re as easily led astray as any child, have never learned to say no. It’s lucky you were not born a woman, Little Brother. You’d have been perpetually pregnant!”
Richard laughed, and so did most of the others in the hall. The color drained from John’s face; he bit down on his lower lip until it bled, sought to focus upon the pain to the exclusion of all else.
Rising, Richard bent down, picked up John’s sword. “But you’re here; that counts for something. And our lady mother would have me forgive you; that counts for much. I suppose I should just be thankful that since you are so much given to treachery, you’re so reassuringly inept at it!” He stepped forward, held out John’s sword. “Your betrayals are forgiven, Little Brother…if not forgotten. But though your blood buys you a pardon, the price is higher for an earldom, higher than you can pay. I’ve no intention of restoring your titles and lands, not until I’m damned well sure that you’re deserving of them…if ever.”
John came to his feet, reached for his sword. Richard was some inches the taller of the two, and now, standing on the dais stairs, he towered over the younger man. As their eyes met, John said, quite tonelessly, “I shall remember your generosity, Brother. You may count upon that.”
Supper was generally an afterthought, but that evening’s meal was an unusually bountiful one; in his relief that his risky role as peacemaker had met with such success, Archdeacon Alençon emptied his larders, set before Richard a succession of meat and fish dishe
s, highly seasoned venison and salmon swimming in wine gravy. The salmon Richard dispatched to John’s end of the table, with a good-humored but heavy-handed jest about the Prodigal Son and the Fatted Calf. To John, the taste was bitter as gall, and as soon after the meal as he could, he escaped the hall, out into the dark of the gardens.
He was alone but a few moments, however. Joanna had followed, came forward to sit beside him on a rough-hewn oaken bench. “Here,” she said, thrusting a wine cup into his hand. “I think you’re in need of this.”
They’d gotten on well as children; she was only two years older than he, and he’d been sorry when their father had sent her off to Sicily as an eleven-year-old bride for William the Good. When he thought now upon his humiliation in the great hall, it was Joanna’s presence there that he minded the most, and he said sharply, “If you’ve come to offer pity, I do not want any!”
“You need not worry; I do not think you’re deserving of any. You were not ‘led astray,’ knew exactly what you were doing…and got what you deserved.” But then she gave him a direct, searching glance. “Does that offend you, Johnny?”
“No,” John said, surprised to discover that he actually preferred her matter-of-fact rebuke to Richard’s contemptuous pardon, and when she smiled at him, he smiled back.
“I’m glad,” she said simply. “I can tell you, then, that I think Richard erred. A pardon should be generously given or not at all. For all that Richard has a fine grasp of tactics, he’s always been woefully lacking in tact!”
And what was he expected to say to that, John wondered, agree and incriminate himself? But after a moment to reflect, he dismissed the suspicion as unwarranted. For all the love that lay between them, he could not truly see Joanna as Richard’s spy. Nor, were he to be fair, was that Richard’s way, either. Richard would not take the trouble.
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