Sword of Justice (White Knight Series)

by Jude Chapman

  The earls of Huntingdon, Leicester, and Gloucester—the last being Richard’s younger brother John—each conveying a golden sword of state.

  Six barons transporting the king’s royal robes and insignia.

  The earl of Essex holding the gem-studded crown.

  Four barons of the Cinque Ports holding aloft a silken canopy.

  The bishops of Durham and Bath flanking the canopy on either side.

  And beneath the canopy, imperiously trailing the crown he would soon wear, the prince of the moment: Richard Cœur de Lion. Richard the Lionhearted.

  Although the new king of England was born at King’s House in Oxford well-nigh thirty-two years before, he had spent nearly his entire life living and warring in the Norman lands of his parents. Neither his mother nor his father nor his grandparents were English, but since his great-great-grandfather—William the Bastard—took England by force over a hundred years ago, Richard’s birthright was time-honored. When his father died after engaging in battle one last time with his power-seeking sons, Richard inherited the crown. None disputed his right, though many harbored ill will.

  Filling a hall, a cathedral, or a battlefield solely by his presence and voice, Richard the Lionhearted believed in his place, his position, and his right to be king before all others. Though he was the third son born to Henri of Anjou and Eleanor of Aquitaine, he fought for the crown of England from the first, letting nothing stand in his way. Had he not been born king or not been born of Henri and Eleanor, Richard still would have achieved exalted heights and absolute veneration. Richard Plantagenêt could be ruthless, cruel, and unforgiving. But he could also be tender, poetic, and generous. Men quelled before him and loved him; cursed his name and worshipped him; plotted against him and stood beside him; followed him to the ends of the earth and preceded him to Hell; and it would always be so.

  Glancing neither left nor right, Drake fitzAlan, king’s knight and former squire, trailed the long procession. Under the queen’s tutelage, he wore splendid ceremonial vestments. Pleated and embroidered at the neck, the fustian chainse lay beneath a brocaded forest-green surcote with close-fitting sleeves and laced side openings. A malachite brooch secured a matching fur-lined pellice, the flounce edged with emeralds and pearls. A matching ribbon to tie back his hair, clean breech hose, and a white-plumed hat cut of the same green brocade completed the ensemble. Counting himself lucky if he did not swoon inside the constricting garments and the airless church, Drake bore up under his role.

  Eleanor, the king’s progenitor and champion, sat in the choir stalls and gave witness to her personal triumph. Beside her, Alais Capét of France, though elegantly attired, paled in comparison to the queen’s scarlet majesty.

  Awaiting the king at the altar, Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury presided over the installation of a king. At his side, another of Richard’s illegitimate brothers, Geoffrey Plantagenêt—archbishop-elect of York—assisted.

  The ceremony was long and specific, each rite, prayer, oath, and song planned to the minutest detail by a committee of a hundred. A spiritual observance as much as a provincial sanction, the coronation of the king of England was a complicated bond joining Church and kingdom, and made enduring by ritual.

  Upon reaching the altar, Richard took his seat on the sedes in pulpito, the stately chair placed before the throne. While the antiphon Firmetur Manus Tua was sung, Richard left the chair and made an offering to the altar of an ermine-lined cloak and a pound of gold. The Litany followed while the king knelt humbly before the altar. Afterwards, Richard approached the high altar and took the coronation oath while kneeling before the Holy Gospels and the relics of martyred saints.

  “I swear to Almighty God,” Richard said, projecting his bass voice for all to hear, “that for all the days of my life, I will observe peace, honor, and reverence towards God and the Holy Church. I swear to exercise right justice over all the people committed to my charge. I swear that if any bad laws have been introduced into the kingdom, I will abolish them and enact good laws in their place.” He rose and stepped back.

  While prayers of consecration were spoken, Drake attended Richard behind a privacy curtain. He was a magnificent man, both of beauty and grace. The ruddy complexion, the pleasing profile, the commanding eyes, and the reddish-golden hair of his ancestors marked him through and through as a Norman, a North Man, a Viking from the times before memory when his ancestors traveled south to conquer the continent and thence sailed over the channel to conquer the Anglo-Saxon island now known as England.

  Beneath the mask of king, Richard did not notice a former squire’s clumsy fingers; or hear the stir of echoes in the choir; or smell the burning incense. He had entered a private domain where he alone stood tall and elegant. His translucent eyes, focused on no particular object, were elsewhere. Perhaps he saw his future. Perhaps his past. Perhaps history and destiny were melding into one. Perhaps his heart was being tempered from flesh to steel. Wherever the truth lay, by day’s end Richard Plantagenêt, duke of Normandy, Aquitaine, and Gascony, count of Anjou, Poitou, Maine, and Nantes, and overlord of Brittany, and bestowed with God’s grace and honors infinite, would be forever a changed man, not merely a king but something akin to the gods of old.

  Stripped to his chainse and bared to the chest, the king presented himself to the archbishop of Canterbury, who first anointed Richard’s head with holy oil mixed with balsam and followed suit with chest and shoulders. He bound the king’s head in a chrism cloth that could not be removed for eight days, and by this symbolic act, granted Richard leave to be king of England, who in turn served at the behest of the Holy Church, in God’s name and as His chosen instrument.

  Drake assisted in Richard’s re-clothing of tunic and dalmatic, the cap of state, gold-laced sandals, golden spurs, sword of justice, and lastly an ermine-lined stole and mantle.

  Archbishop Baldwin said, “Before God, I beseech you, Richard, count of Poitou and Anjou, duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, do not take the crown unless you genuinely intend to keep the oaths you have sworn.”

  “With God’s help, I intend to observe them all.”

  With his own hands, Richard took the crown from the altar and presented it to the archbishop, who placed it upon the head of the king. Thus the tenuous bargain was struck. The Church did not have sole dominion over the king, for it was the king who conferred the holy act of coronation to the archbishop.

  After accepting the scepter and rod, Richard, anointed king of England and coronated with a circle of gold, mounted his throne.

  * * *

  “To the king!” John said, holding his cup aloft and toasting his elder brother.

  “Long live the king!” the assemblage responded. And with that, the celebration began in earnest.

  The king’s cortège had wound its way back to the banqueting hall at the Royal Palace, where long tables set with goblets and bottomless pitchers formed an open square with Richard sitting centermost at the raised dais.

  Earls, barons, and bishops followed John’s lead, each taking a turn in saluting the king and pledging undying loyalty.

  The newly named bishop of Ely and chancellor of England, Guillaume de Longchamp, raised his cup in salute. “What, Richard? No bats in the belfry, no shades taking wing around your throne? Where are the ill omens, eh? The soothsayers lie, I say. There are no auguries of evil, no taints to your reign. You, Richard Plantagenêt, shall live forever!”

  Waves of cheers splashed across the tables.

  William Marshal stood. “Not long ago …,” he began, and waited for his audience to hush. “Not long ago, when Henry fled north from Le Mans, the town of his birth, and Richard chased him in heady pursuit, most keen and most ready to slice off the head of his father the king, I had the occasion of routing our new king.”

  Laughter rumbled like an approaching storm, some of it in jest and some laced with malice.

  “Henry’s rearguard was under command, in my most humble opinion, of a supreme leader. Myself!” He waited
for the laughter to subside. “It was my privilege, indeed my duty, to ride straight for the arrogant duke of Aquitaine and level lance at his breast. Not wearing hauberk or carrying a lance of his own, Richard cried out, ‘By God’s legs, do not kill me, Marshal. I am unarmed!’ To which I replied, ‘Let the Devil kill you, for I won’t!’ Then, adjusting my aim, I ran my lance through his horse.”

  Every man bent over with fits of mirth.

  “Now you see my reward for killing his horse.” He bowed to the king. “Named lord of Striguil and given a comely young bride to soften the edges of my pride, so says my new king. Let that be a lesson to you all. To kill the horse and not the king!”

  Richard chortled heartily and brought a goblet to his sputtering lips.

  Laughing into his cups, Marshal retook his seat beside Drake and slapped him on the back, urging him to join in the merriment. For a story was a story, but when told by William Marshal was an even greater story than other men told, especially since he had been grandmaster to the fitzAlan brothers when they were beardless youths and yet remained their mentor and captain. Flush with drink, Drake did as he was bid and snorted into his goblet as if he were high in spirits even while his eyes soberly focused on one man.

  John was sitting austerely beside his brother the king. The earl of Gloucester was not in a celebratory frame of mind even though he drank cup for cup with every toast. Short where his brother the king was stately, dark where his brother the king was golden, rude where his brother the king was charming, and crude where his brother the king was refined, John was a man who might be king someday, but only if his brother died before issuing an heir. From the look of his haughty face and knowing the depth of his pride, Drake feared he would rule England on day, though it wouldn’t be this day.

  Marshal slung a heavy arm around Drake’s shoulders. “He’s a spoilt child, that one. He has much to learn. And so do you, my fine fellow.” Drake broke the one-sided stare Marshal had noticed and let his eyes drift elsewhere.

  Platter after food-laden platter was brought out in timed splendor. The citizens of London proudly served as cellarers while the townsfolk of Winchester looked after the kitchen.

  First on the menu was cherry potage in wine with butter and sugar. Next came blanche porre cooked with leeks and onions in a chicken stock spiced with saffron, sugar, and pepper. The rest followed systematically, allowing time for digestion, belches, more toasts, the trading of tales, and the singing of songs. More dishes arrived. Lombard chicken pasties stuffed with bacon. Roasted peacocks, their brilliant blue-and-green plumage in full array. Blawmanger capon with almonds and rice. Roasted quail seasoned with mustard and nutmeg. Braised pheasant blended with cinnamon and summer savory. Wild salmon cooked with honey, pepper, and parsley. And cruste rolles cut into rounds and fried to mouth-watering crispness.

  As abundant and varied were the dishes, these were but the appetizers. The nonstop feasting was to go on for three days. More than five-thousand dishes, nine-hundred pitchers, and two-thousand goblets would be piled high or filled to the rim, and forthwith emptied and refilled again.

  Queen Eleanor had outdone herself. But in the tradition of a king’s coronation, this was an affair reserved only for men. Neither the queen nor any other noblewoman was allowed to attend. Additionally, members of the Jewish community were expressly forbidden, which proved to be the coronation’s undoing.

  Because outside the Royal Palace, a clamor arose, quietly at first but eventually escalating until the heated commotion penetrated the banquet hall with hushed tones and frantic whispers. In leisurely fashion, gossip spread from knight to baron and from earl to bishop, and soon burst into flames too hot to squelch.

  Bringing with them only the best of intentions, a delegation of London Jews had arrived, bearing gifts to offer the new king. Stopped from entering by Richard’s bailiffs, the Jewish leaders were forcibly ejected and their offerings confiscated. Crowds milling outside the palace set upon the unfortunate men once more, beating them in the heat of emotion, some to the point of death.

  His finery ruffled and soiled, a courtier rushed into the hall and whispered into the king’s ear. Temper flared across Richard’s face. The Jews were under his sworn protection. Hell would be paid before sunset.

  In the tumult, John—accompanied by his retinue—slipped out of the hall.

  Chapter 23

  WHAT BEGAN OVER A FEW well-intentioned Hebrews paying homage to their new king escalated into a full-blown riot.

  Drake fought his way out of the palace. Men pushed, shouted, threw fists, and snarled into the pit of insanity. More than once Drake was jostled and punched in the sweltering throng. Two vagrants—one with lanky brown hair and a profile marred by a broken nose and the other black-haired and pock-faced—flanked Drake on either side. They proffered their hats and waved him through, unveiling yellow teeth. Someone grabbed his arm. He spun around, ready to swing out.

  It was Stephen. He was admiring Drake, laughing and swatting the extravagant white feather sticking out from his hat.

  “Count yourself lucky!” Drake yelled.

  The crowd, deciding to invade the Jewish quarter and finish what they began at the palace, dragged the brothers reluctantly in tow. Drake tugged Stephen’s arm and mimed for them to head toward the river. They struggled to find safe haven, but the mob had a mind of its own. Every way they turned, men drunk with drink or drunk with passion were either rampaging or in the giddy throes of jubilation. Some thirsted for drink. Others thirsted for blood.

  At last cutting loose from the suffocating mêlée, the brothers scrambled down to the quay and hired a skiff. The captain was a slovenly rogue with a matted beard and a hangover worse than Drake’s. He scrutinized the lads: one dressed like a baron even if riot-worn and the other looking like a beggared monk. He demanded a double fee. They willingly paid.

  Squinting up at a smoke-filled sky, the captain rowed the fitzAlan brothers around the river bend toward the Tower. Some four storeys high, the Palatine Castle asserted mastery over a town in turmoil, becoming at once a beacon and a destination, not just for the fitzAlan brothers but the masses. Topped by four turrets—three rectangular and one round—the stone castle starkly contrasted the wooden buildings of the town it defended, at once establishing its permanence and preeminence. Shimmering in the heat, its impregnable walls looked as if they had been tempered with English blood. This day they would be, making the edifice the ultimate altar for sacrifice and a center of supreme power as mighty as any house of God.

  Drawn inland by promises of offal, seagulls swooped overhead and squawked in alternating harmony.

  The barque on which Drake and Stephen rode drifted sluggishly beneath the London Bridge. The Jewish quarter, situated less than a mile from the royal residence, raged with fires. Rising in billows to the sky, thick smoke blanketed the sun and turned day into night. Cinders rained down and coated every roof, road, man, and beast with soot and ash. Though they saw no rioters nor witnessed any violence, Drake and Stephen heard the screams of terror. The plundering, raping, and burning would go on throughout the night, nothing to stop it now, not even by edict of the new king.

  Drake and Stephen disembarked at Galleygate and hoofed it past ship after ship, some tied up at dock, others moored in the river, foreign vessels hailing from Scandia and the Middle Sea and carrying unknown quantities of fish and salt, oil and spices, silks and furs. No goods would be off-loaded this day.

  At the Tower, the king’s garrison was at full strength, not to defend the castle but to admit the few Jews abandoning homes and shops, and seeking sanctuary from murderous rioters. Drake went alone into the castle. The royal manner of his dress, even if smelling of fish and smoke, gave him immediate entrée into John’s official salle. He waited, but not long.

  Entering without retinue, John was outfitted as richly as his brother through the guiding hand of his mother. He greeted Drake warmly as Stephen, kissing him on both cheeks. “So,” John said, “it is done.”

/>   Only a year older than Drake, John seemed a wizened old man in comparison. He was known to be womanizer, a lecher, and a debaucher. Depending on who told the tales, a bastard or two had already been born to ladies of both considered and ill-repute. He was considered the best-read member of the family, excepting Eleanor, with an abiding interest in theology, though it was said he hadn’t taken the Eucharist since childhood. Possessed of a caustic brand of humor, he targeted especially those he distrusted, which seemed to be nearly every man and woman of his acquaintance, including Drake and Stephen.

  “’Tis, milord. You must be proud.”

  “Proud, oui, among other reflections.”

  “May I also offer congratulations on your recent marriage?”

  The prince waved a dismissive hand. “Sit, do sit, and tell me of Drake and how he is getting on.”

  Tight-lipped about the disposition of himself and his fortunes, Drake turned the occasional phrase to suggest his other self would soon return to country, castle, and hearth.

  “And how would that be accomplished?” John asked, casual to the point of disinterest. Drake offered no solution, but the king’s younger sibling came to one on his own. “Ah, Lord fitzAlan, working his diplomacy in the background. A skilled negotiator is William fitzAlan. Soon he will have all the injured parties assoiling your brother of malfeasance, and they will welcome him home with open arms, everyone in possession of full purses and well-stocked stables.” He brandished a sapphire-ringed hand. “You know, Stephen, I think it might be advantageous to become more fully acquainted with you and your brother, when he returns in all good propriety. Your strengths and weakness, likes and dislikes, predilections and prejudices. We are contemporaries, you and I. One day soon, I should like to call you friend.” He stood. Drake rose with him. John put his arm around his shoulders as a much older brother. “I do believe that is one of the better ideas I have had of late. After all, we are cousins, are we not? In truth I well remember playing a game of chess with Drake when we were boys. He lost, as I recall.”