by Jean Plaidy
‘The son of a French serf who ran away and hid himself in a Norman village. Longchamp was the name of that village and they took that as their name. Doubtless they thought it had a noble ring. The man is a low-born knave.’
‘He is very powerful,’ said Hadwisa.
‘Powerful! At this time maybe. It is not going to last though.’
‘Is it not?’
‘Indeed it is not, for I say so and you know don’t you, wife, that when I command all obey me.’
She was silent and he shouted: ‘Know you it, wife?’
‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ she answered.
‘Then when I speak to you, pray do not remain silent. If you do I shall be angry and you would not like that, you know.’
‘No, John.’
‘Remember it. I tell you this: it will not be long before Longchamp is sent back to Normandy. You believe that, don’t you?’
‘If you say so, John.’
‘Yes, I say so! I hate the fellow. Low-born upstart! Do you know I think he would take the crown if it were at all possible.’
‘But that could never be,’ she said.
‘Nay. Though ’tis true it now rests with one who does not deserve it.’
‘You speak of the King.’
‘Who is at this moment in Palestine fighting the Saracen. Or is he there, do you think? Mayhap his ship foundered. Ships do that often. Mayhap he is at this moment lying dead with an arrow in his body. By God’s holy eyes, if that be so then your husband, Hadwisa, is King of England. Would it were so. Oh God, I pray you send that arrow quick . . . let it pierce his heart. He must lose that for which he shows little love for if he loved England how could he have deserted her to be a soldier of the cross?’ Hadwisa trembled. He looked down at the bed and pushed her over on to her face. ‘There! I would not see your traitorous eyes, my lady. You have no spirit. You are frightened of God, of Richard! Fool that you are. There is one whom you should fear. The new King, your husband.’
She said: ‘I do.’
‘Then you have some sense. I tell you this, wife; that I am going to take this kingdom. Whether God sends that arrow or not. Richard is not here. Then he shall lose his kingdom. The people are restive. They will be with me.’
She raised herself and looked steadily at him. ‘What of your mother?’ she asked.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I am her son am I not?’
‘She loves Richard.’
‘Aye, and she loves me too. She is a wise woman, a woman of great experience. She will see that this must be. He deserts his kingdom. There must be a king.’
He looked at her without seeing her. He could see nothing but the crown on his own head. That vision was more exciting than anything he could conjure up. He was bored with her. He could not discuss his dreams with her. What was she? An ignorant little country girl! He would never have known her if she had not been the richest heiress in the land.
To her great relief he left her. She dressed hurriedly and said a prayer of thankfulness, adding a request that soon he would go away.
She began to think of what effect it would have on her life if he truly became King. She then would be the Queen.
It was not so much the thought of being Queen that terrified her but of being his Queen.
Down in the hall the venison was being served . . . a very special occasion for the coming of the King’s brother. John sat at the table, his wife beside him, but he had little to say to her. His thoughts were far away from this hall. He was seeing himself being crowned in Westminster. It was all he could do to restrain himself from talking of this matter but he was not so foolish as to do so in such varied company.
He glanced at Hubert de Burgh, a young man to whom he had taken a great fancy, and he wished they were alone together so that he could have talked to him.
It was while they were at dinner that messengers arrived for John. He had his spies everywhere and it was one of their duties to bring news to him wherever he might be.
So thus while they sat at dinner and the minstrels strummed their lutes and sang, there was a clatter of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard which proved to be the arrival of one of John’s messengers.
Hoping that he brought news of Richard’s death he went out into the courtyard to meet the messenger. The man was mud-stained for he had travelled fast and far knowing his master would wish the news to be brought to him without delay.
‘Come, man, what is it?’
‘I have news of the King, my lord,’ he said. ‘He has left Sicily. He has made a pact with the usurper King Tancred.’
‘So he still lives,’ said John, his brow darkening.
‘Aye, my lord,’ said the messenger, ‘and there is ill news.’
‘Ill news!’ he cried. ‘What news?’
The messenger looked alarmed. It was not good to be the harbinger of news which did not please and he knew what he had to tell Prince John would send him into a passion. But he must tell it. It would be more than his life was worth to withhold anything.
He blurted out: ‘The King has promised Prince Arthur of Brittany to Tancred’s daughter. It is one of the terms of the pact.’
‘Arthur!’ screamed John.
‘’Tis so, my lord.’
‘By God’s teeth,’ muttered John. ‘He has offered Arthur as the heir of England!’
‘’Twould seem so, my lord, for Tancred has accepted the offer most joyfully.’
John’s face was distorted with rage.
‘By your leave, my lord,’ said the messenger bowing and hastily taking a few steps backwards.
But John did not see him. He was thinking of what this would mean. Their nephew, Arthur, son of their brother Geoffrey, had been named by Richard as heir to the throne of England!
‘No, no, no,’ screamed John.
Then he smiled slowly. Of course Arthur would never be King. He was a baby. He had never been to England. The English would never accept him.
But, by God, how he hated his brother for attempting to cheat him!
Could some say that Arthur had the greater claim? Geoffrey was older than he, John. Geoffrey’s son! No, it was nonsense. It could never be. He would see that it never was.
By God, he would take the throne now while Richard lived if need be. What had he to fear from a puling infant?
He was in no mood for Hadwisa. He had matters of greater moment to consider than her discomfort.
‘We are leaving,’ he shouted. ‘There are matters of business to claim me. I can no longer rest here.’
Hadwisa stood at the turret watching his departure.
She blessed the messenger who had brought such a message to drive her from her husband’s thoughts.
William of Longchamp was too clever a man not to have realised that his most dangerous enemy was Prince John, and that sooner or later the Prince’s simmering hatred would boil over into dangerous action.
Longchamp believed that he could deal satisfactorily with the Prince, who for all his blustering and violent temper was a weak man. Had he not been the son of a King he would never have risen very far. Whereas he, Longchamp, had done so, although severely handicapped, his grandparents both being fugitive slaves who had come from France to the little village of Longchamp and lived out their lives in obscurity, their great ambition being never to be discovered.
He had been determined not to remain in obscurity. Nature had seen fit to bestow on him an unattractive body but a clever brain and all wise men knew that the second was more desirable than the first. When he had been younger he had longed to be tall but he soon realised that he never would be. In fact unkind people called him ‘that ill-favoured dwarf’. That was not true but he was of very low stature so that his head seemed bigger than normal, as were his hands and his feet. It was as though nature had joked with him, giving him a chin that receded and a stomach that protruded; and as if that were not enough one leg was slightly shorter than the other which meant that he walked with a limp. But to compensate him for his physica
l disabilities he had been given not only a lively mind but the understanding that it could take him far if he nurtured it; so he learned where he could, observing constantly and making himself agreeable to those who could be useful to him.
It was great good fortune which had brought him to the notice of Richard when he was in Aquitaine. Two men could not have been more different. The shining god-like creature, physically perfect and with a natural dignity and grace, a man as many said born to be king and who looked every inch of it, and his poor misshapen servant. It might have been this contrast which attracted Richard’s attention. In any case he soon discovered the mental brilliance of his servant and began to take notice of him. Soon Longchamp was making Richard see how clever he could be and the King took him more and more into his confidence.
So firm did Richard’s patronage become that when he was King of England and planning his crusade he decided that Longchamp should be his Chancellor and share with Hugh Pusey, Bishop of Durham, the office of Chief Justiciary in the commission he was appointing to govern England during his absence. What did it matter if Longchamp was ugly? He was going to show Richard that he had not misplaced his confidence and to flaunt his wealth and position in the faces of those who had jeered at him for his lack of social grace. It was not long before he quarrelled with Hugh Pusey; they were both ambitious and each saw in the other a rival to power. Longchamp was the more wily, always one step ahead; and in a short space of time he had completely overcome Pusey, bringing charges against him which justified imprisonment and then taking from him, in exchange for his liberation, his office and some of his possessions. Thus Longchamp became the sole justiciary, the man in whose hands lay the means and the power to govern England during Richard’s absence.
Of course the people hated him. He was a Norman and insisted on unfamiliar customs in his household. Then there was his love of ostentation. It was natural enough that one who had been despised must find it necessary to show continually how rich and powerful he had become. Every extravagance was a gesture. See how the King loves me! he seemed to be saying. But the more gestures of this nature there were, the more the people hated him. He in his turn hated the English. He was constantly trying to show them how inferior they were. If he were an astute statesman he was no student of human nature. He blindly revelled in Richard’s favour and cared nothing for the enmity of others, forgetting that Richard was far away and that his enemies were all around him.
The crusade swallowed up great wealth. More was constantly demanded. If he were to serve his master well he must see that taxes were levied and paid; it was ironical that the people of England should not blame their King whose activities made it necessary that the money should be raised but his Chancellor whose duty it was to see that the money was collected.
There was murmuring all over the land about the upstart Norman, the nobody who dressed as richly as a king and travelled in great state wherever he went. When he went about the country and rested at religious houses as became a man of the church, for besides being the King’s Chancellor he was also the Bishop of Ely, there were complaints that to house him and his splendid retinue cost them several months’ revenue.
Longchamp heard the sly allusions to his humble origins and this only made him the more extravagant; he was determined to show them that however he had begun he had climbed to the pinnacle of success at this time. He insisted that his servants kneel when serving him, a fact which was noted and circulated throughout the kingdom. The arrogance of the man was unendurable. The King himself could not live more regally.
It was inevitable that his enemies should see that the King heard of his growing unpopularity. Queen Eleanor had become disturbed and when in Sicily had advised her son to send Walter de Coutances, the Archbishop of Rouen, over to England, ostensibly to assist Longchamp in the Regency, but in fact to watch events carefully and if Longchamp became too unpopular, and that might cause the people to rise against him, to take over the reins from him.
Longchamp was suspicious of the Archbishop. He misconstrued the reason for his coming, and had an idea that he was doubtless hoping to attain the See of Canterbury which was vacant. As he himself had his eye on this prime plum of the Church he was antagonistic towards the Archbishop.
But his real enemy was Prince John. Longchamp smiled to himself to imagine John’s wrath when he heard of how the Chancellor roamed the country in as royal a fashion as any king. He did not fear him. What was the Prince but a lecherous profligate? He had no stability. The people would never support him. King Richard was however inclined to be lenient regarding his brother’s peccadilloes. ‘John would never succeed in taking a kingdom,’ he had once said. ‘And if by some strange chance he did he would never hold it. He is not of the stuff of which conquerors are made.’
Richard had communicated that contempt to Longchamp, so when he heard that John was fulminating about him the Bishop merely shrugged his shoulders and ignored him.
It was at this time that he became concerned with the affair of Gerard de Camville who was the sheriff of Lincoln. He believed that man to be a troublemaker because he was friendly with Prince John and he suspected him of urging that the Prince rise against the Chancellor. Gerard de Camville had in fact sworn allegiance to John as though he were already King or at least heir to the throne. Longchamp was determined that the next King would be Arthur of Brittany, which would suit him very well. If Richard died while the boy was a minor then he, Longchamp, would continue as Regent until Arthur was of such an age to govern. He would bring him to England and have him educated there under his guidance. It would be an excellent arrangement. The fact was, though, that Richard was by no means old, had married the Princess of Navarre and might well have heirs which would put Arthur out of the running. But with Richard’s son being brought up by the Chancellor or – failing a son of Richard’s his nephew Arthur – the prospect was good, although there was one who could put it in jeopardy: John.
Therefore it was disconcerting to have men like Gerard de Camville swearing allegiance to the Prince and when it was brought to his notice that de Camville had sheltered robbers in his castle and allowed them to go free even though they had taken the goods of a band of travellers passing near Lincoln, this seemed too good an opportunity to miss. The late King’s laws against robbery had been very severe and Richard had not altered them. It had been made clear that if the country was to be safe for travellers, drastic penalties should be meted out to offenders. This had been proved over more than a hundred years. William the Conqueror had made England law-abiding and the people had seen that it was to their advantage. Only during the reign of weak Stephen had it lapsed, and then robber barons had waylaid travellers, to rob, torture and kill them. No one wanted a return to that.
So Longchamp had a very good reason to reprimand Gerard de Camville.
He sent for Gerard, who refused to come himself and sent a messenger in his place. This was an insult in itself.
Longchamp demanded: ‘Where is your master?’
‘He has other business to occupy him, my lord,’ was the answer.
‘I summoned him here,’ replied Longchamp, ‘and when I summon a man if he is wise he comes.’
‘My lord bids me ask you to state your business to me and he has furnished me with some answers for he guesses you wish to speak to him concerning the guests he recently entertained at his castle.’
‘These men were robbers. They should have been dealt with by the law.’
‘The men they robbed were Jews, my lord.’
‘What of this?’
‘The people do not love the Jews. Nor does the King. Many were killed at his coronation.’
‘Go and tell your master that he has offended against the laws of this land and he is summoned to the courts.’
‘My lord answers only to one master during the absence of the King. He is the liegeman of Prince John.’
‘Pray go and tell your master that he is summoned to the courts and it will go ill with him if he
does not obey this summons.’
It was this matter which was giving Longchamp anxious thoughts on this summer’s morning of the year 1191.
When Gerard de Camville asked for an audience with Prince John he was received at once.
‘This insolent Norman flouts you, my lord,’ cried Gerard. ‘I have told him that I obey only one liege lord: my Prince. His answer is that that will not serve. He ignores you, my lord and your authority.’
‘By God’s eyes, ’tis so,’ cried John. ‘We’ll show the knave. I’ll drive him from his office. You will see. I am the King’s brother. I am in fact the rightful King, for you know full well my father wanted me to have this kingdom.’
Gerard was silent. He was with John at the moment but one must be careful not to utter treason. There were too many who could overhear a carelessly spoken word.
‘As your liegeman,’ said Gerard, ‘I maintain that it is only in your courts that I can be tried.’
‘Leave this to me,’ said John. He was excited, seeing here a chance for open conflict with Longchamp. He wanted to think what trouble could grow out of this incident.
He whipped himself up to a fury. It was an indulgence he could never resist. Anger stimulated him. He liked to feel it rising within him to such heights that he had to let it out. Now he felt he could indulge in righteous anger.
‘Am I a king’s son or am I not?’ he demanded.
‘You are indeed, my Prince,’ answered Gerard, soothingly. ‘Any who denied it would lie in his throat.’
‘And one denies it. This low-born peasant, this serf who gives himself the airs of a King. Would I had him here, Gerard! What would I do with him? No torture would be too severe. It would please me greatly to listen to his screams for mercy.’
‘He is indeed an arrogant upstart, my Prince.’
‘Aye, and living like a king. His servants . . . English servants mark you! . . . kneeling before him when he eats. I should like to make him kneel . . . kneel to the humblest man I could find. That would amuse me. Strip him of his silks and jewels and have him mother naked in the streets and the lash descending on his peasant’s back till the blood flowed.’