‘And Bardolf?’
William shrugged. ‘We can out-vote him. Come, let us send word to Richard by confidential messenger. ’Tis best to be open about this. Summon Longchamp and the others and let us oust him from the Council.’
FitzPeter nodded. ‘Very well. Des Coutances is of this opinion,’ he said uncertainly. ‘I have a man suited to the task of reaching Richard if you can find him escort.’
‘I have men from my mesnie who will relish it… Come what yet troubles you?’
‘By what means do we unseat the Chancellor?’
‘Leave that to me.’
The Council sat in the White Tower next morning on the pretext of considering what must be done to confront the problem of Count John’s undesirable appearance in England. Unaware of what awaited him, De Longchamp made a fatal mistake in his opening remarks.
‘I suppose, FitzMarshal, you welcome this intrusion?’ he said sarcastically as the five men sat down and wine was served.
‘On the presumption that I owe Count John allegiance?’
‘You have been heard to say so.’
‘Indeed, but that is not, in fact the case. The truth is, my Lord Chancellor, the matter touches yourself more closely than it touches me.’
‘How so?’ asked De Longchamp, suddenly wary.
‘We require that you surrender the Great Seal into our care…’
‘What?’ roared De Longchamp, interrupting and jumping to his feet. ‘That you may hand it to Count John? Have a care, FitzMarshal, you are not the only man to command men-at-arms, I can muster a force…’
‘By God’s Love not at all,’ William interrupted, looking round at his fellow co-Justicars who, with the exception of Hugh Bardolf, watched the unfolding drama with detached interest. ‘Have we discussed any such action, my Lords?’ He asked each in turn and all denied any such conspiracy. ‘There, my Lord Chancellor,’ William went on reasonably. ‘The fact is, we do not consider you to be suitable for your offices, neither that of Lord Chancellor, nor that of Bishop of Ely, though that lies outside our jurisdiction.’
De Longchamp was white and trembling with rage. ‘Why…why, in God’s name… You have n…no right…’ he eventually spluttered.
‘That you have roused half the Barons of England against you I would count a distinction, my Lord, but my Lord Archbishop of York, a man with whom you have until recently been in amity, has much to say against you these days. I understand that you gave orders for his arrest and upon grounds unrevealed to this Council. In this light, common justice, with which you yourself might agree, denies you possession of the Great Seal of England.’
‘On wh…what grounds?’ De Longchamp stuttered, beside himself, though William could see the shadow of prescience fall across De Longchamp’s ape-like features before he had even uttered the words.
‘Why buggery, my Lord Bishop.’
***
‘How did you know?’ asked FitzPeter later.
‘I did not know anything, but I found no grounds for De Longchamp’s order to arrest Geoffrey of York, and presumed a guilt-ridden conscience. Besides, there have been rumours of the deaths of two choir-boys at York,’ replied William.
‘I had heard that,’ added Briwerre in eager if unfounded corroboration.
Bardolf shook his head, plainly disbelieving the assertion. ‘You acted boldly, FitzMarshal, think you to do the same with Count John? By all accounts an accusation of buggery would not trouble him and you are his liegeman in respect of your Irish lands.’
William shrugged. ‘As are you too, Master Bardolf, but Count John is Richard’s for Ireland itself while we are all Richard’s co-Justiciars for England and I propose that we invite Walter des Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, to come hither to join our Council. What say you all?’
But before the Archbishop of Rouen could take De Longchamp’s place it was Count John who sat at the head of the Council of State.
‘I am come to sit as my brother’s Regent,’ he said smoothly, ‘to guard his throne lest anyone in England should see in the discomfiture of De Longchamp, my brother’s chosen Chancellor, some means by which to rise in revolt.’ John stared round the table, his eyes coming to rest on William. William met the Count’s gaze without a flicker, expecting some such sally and staring John down. ‘It was a cruel and disloyal thing to act so against the fellow,’ John remarked conversationally, sifting through the parchments laid upon the table in front of him. ‘I hear he has escaped into France disguised as a woman hawking wares of some sort and there excommunicated all four of you.’ The Count chuckled. ‘Word will reach Richard who is even now on campaign in the Holy Land, God grant his arms success,’ John went on piously crossing himself, ‘and we shall have to await my brother’s pleasure in this respect.’ John smiled and regarded each one of the co-Justiciars, as if relishing Richard’s vengeance at the dismissal of his appointee. William was reminded of a cat playing with a mauled mouse. No-one said a word, waiting for John to reveal his hand.
‘But no doubt you have other things on your minds, eh?’ the Count went on smoothly. ‘Such as why I have come over to England when I might have been expected to sit upon my arse in Mortain, which my generous brother added to my demesne. Well, you have heard that my Lord the King wed the Lady Berengaria of Navarre in Cyprus last February, thereby securing an alliance with King Sancho which will secure his southern lands from Philippe.’ John smiled and looked about him. ‘Such a coup renders my presence in France superfluous, my Lords.’ John shrugged, picked up a parchment and pretended to read it. Without looking up he said, ‘You, FitzPeter, and you, my Lord of Striguil, were not the only prude-hommes granted land in England. King Richard granted me also estates in Devonshire and Cornwall, besides his castles of Marlborough and Ludgershall. Nor, for that matter,’ he went of affecting a lighter tone of voice, ‘are you the only man, FitzMarshal to benefit from marrying an Isabelle, for know you all that I am betrothed to Isabelle of Gloucester and with her come not only Gloucester and Bristol Castles, but marcher lands west of the River Usk and through Glamorgan.’ John positively leered at William. ‘We shall be neighbours FitzMarshal, besides your owing me allegiance for your lands in Leinster.’
‘You have no grounds to remind me of my allegiances, my Lord Count,’ William responded coolly.
‘Good,’ John sat back and called for wine. When he had been served he looked round the table and asked, ‘why all the long faces? Have I disturbed your cosy nest, messieurs?’
‘My Lord, notwithstanding my Lord King’s alliance with Navarre which may well protect his southern lands, I had supposed you were bound by an oath to remain in Normandy to defend your House’s ancestral lands against possible incursion by Philippe who is said to have been mightily displeased with the King’s marriage,’ William said.
‘Pah!’ John waved aside the mention of any oath. ‘Where did you hear such nonsense? Philippe is in the Holy Land…’
‘I think not, my Lord Count,’ put in FitzPeter. ‘We have some intelligence that he is returning to France.’
‘Well, no matter,’ John responded dismissively. ‘King Philippe will respect the Papal interdict and leave Richard’s lands alone, so long as he is on crusade. He is merely piqued that Richard has rejected the Lady Alice, but why would he not? He has prevaricated long enough and, besides, she is no virgin…’
Geoffrey FitzPeter raised an eyebrow. All knew of the supposed seduction of his son’s betrothed by Henry Curtmantle, but it was clear that Count John knew well enough that Philippe was on his way home from Outremer.
‘I am glad you have faith in King Philippe’s respect for the Pope’s interdict, my Lord,’ remarked William with heavy sarcasm. Although his co-Justiciars appreciated William’s scorn, John affected to ignore the reproach to his light attitude to such strictures.
‘Come, now to the business of the day…’ John said, resuming his aimless riffling through the parchments awaiting the Council’s perusal.
***
‘
By the Christ, ’tis cold,’ complained William Briwerre drawing his fur robe about him as they awaited the arrival of Count John. With the exception of Hugh Bardolf, Briwerre might have spoken for the mood of the co-Justiciars, for ever since the arrival of John they had found themselves in a constant argument with him as he poked his nose into any means of gaining power and money. The young Prince seemed to regard the ruling of England as a game and the co-Justiciars as pawns to be used to fund his excessive pleasures. William was hard put to see in him any virtues or reasons why Henry Curtmantle had once-upon-a-time given his youngest son preference over Richard. At least they had Walter des Coutances as Chancellor now, but that was small consolation for the news coming out of the Holy Land where the campaign did not seem to be going well.
After the expected reports of early victories depressing rumours had reached the Courts of the west, rumours of fallings out among the chief commanders, of jealousies and internecine warfare leading to defeats. Richard, having heroically retaken Acre from Saladin, had resorted to his usual barbarism of massacring his prisoners. At this point he had been abandoned by Philippe as had been long whispered and, free to act alone, Richard had ordered a final advance on Jerusalem. But the triumphant news of the defeat of Saladin at Arsuf was followed first by silence and then disquieting uncertainties.
That summer of 1192 William had learned that his old patron Guillaume de Tancarville had died in Outremer and the news reminded him, if he needed it, of his own mortality. He was nearing fifty years of age and feared for the future. Although he had been impressed by Richard’s demeanour on his assumption of kingship, William did not consider his absence in the Holy Land boded well for his empire. The alliance with Navarre seemed to William insubstantial and set against the enmity aroused with Philippe, worthless. Besides, in John the feckless and wilful conduct of Henry Curtmantle’s brood showed no signs of abating. A growing sense of impending trouble had descended upon William and at the fall of the leaf he had taken his retinue into Nether Gwent where he had ordered the building of a new gatehouse and stone wall at his castle of Chepstow standing on its eminence overlooking the River Wye. He intended it as a safe haven for Isabelle, little William and their second child when his wife was brought to bed, and it was December before he was back in London.
By then it was known that Richard had been forced to turn back within sight of the walls of the Holy City, his army ravaged by disease, worn by fatigue, its lines of supply over-stretched and incapable of mounting the siege operations that the recapture of Jerusalem required.
While they awaited the arrival of Count John, Des Coutances and the co-Justiciars were debating the latest intelligence, now months old, that Richard had secured a settlement with Saladin. The news had arrived with the first of the crusaders to return, among them Hubert FitzWalter, Bishop of Salisbury, who had covered himself with glory in the fighting and now revealed that King Richard and a small retinue intended returning overland. The Council had put Fitzwalter forward as candidate for the vacant See of Canterbury, whither he was duly translated.
As for other news, it was tossed about the Council table like a ball as they awaited Count John.
‘It seems Cyprus is to be given over to Guy de Lusignan,’ observed Des Coutances, ‘and the Holy Places given up.’
‘How is that possible?’ asked an appalled FitzPeter, to be met by shrugs of incomprehension.
‘So, Richard is on his way home overland,’ ruminated William. ‘’Twill take him many months.’
‘Perhaps he is making alliances against Philippe,’ Des Coutances said hopefully.
‘Let us hope no great mischief is done before his arrival,’ remarked William gloomily.
‘But then the sparks will fly,’ added Briwerre with an attempt at cheerfulness.
‘Aye, by the Christ,’ put in Bardolf, biting his nails.
‘We have nothing to fear,’ William said, looking round him, but his words fell on deaf ears, for each fell to his own thoughts. That his old enemy Guy de Lusignan had retained something akin to a throne irritated him, but his chief thoughts were for Robert de Salignac and how he had fared in this grand débâcle.
An hour later John arrived and, dismissing the matters laid before him by FitzPeter, ordered funds from the Customs Dues of the River of Thames diverted to his coffers ‘for the better improvements of Nottingham Castle’. The request was cunningly couched for none of the co-Justiciars could in all justice deny the necessity for the disbursement, though all knew equally that John was making of Nottingham a stronghold in the heart of England for himself.
‘My Lord,’ argued FitzPeter, ‘This is not the proper use of such monies…’
‘Nottingham is weak, FitzPeter,’ John broke in, ‘and much in need of improvement. The Lord of Striguil has put in hand some augmentations at Chepstow, and very wise he is to do so. Nottingham is in like case.’ John sat back and took up his goblet of wine. ‘Do you direct the sums Coutances.’
‘My Lord,’ protested the Archbishop, ‘the Lord of Striguil is paying for the improvements at Chepstow from the revenues of his own lands.’
‘So he should,’ snapped John. ‘That is precisely why he is enfieffed!’
‘But so art thou, my Lord,’ riposted Walter des Coutances.
‘Damn you, Archbishop, for your effrontery!’ John banged the table. ‘I am Regent and Nottingham is to be improved in the King’s name, not mine!’ The Count rose to his feet and began striding up and down the chamber. ‘God rot the lot of you. De Longchamp was right to excommunicate you.’
‘My Lord…’ Bardolf half rose in protest at being lumped with his fellow Justiciars.
‘The excommunication was invalid, my Lord,’ soothed Des Coutances, ignoring Bardolf’s feeble and self-interested intervention. ‘And well you know it. You have four thousand per year from your estates, a half of that would buy you the whole shire of Nottingham, let alone its castle…’
‘You shall not thwart me!’ John turned and slammed his hand on the table under Des Coutances’ nose.
The old Archbishop looked down at the Count’s hand then up at his face, and an ominous silence hung in the air. No-one moved as the two men confronted each other. FitzPeter shot a glance at William but even he seemed paralysed by this naked confrontation. Then Des Coutances said slowly, as if to a child, ‘my Lord, no-one at this table is going to sanction funds for Nottingham from the Customs Levies of the River of Thames – no-one.’
Hugh Bardolf moved uneasily in his seat, as though minded to contest the Archbishop’s assertion and prove himself Count John’s man, but the moment passed.
Count John seemed to visibly deflate, then turned on his heel and bellowed for wine. ‘You would not deny me that, I presume, Archbishop?’ he snarled over his shoulder.
But it was not a page with wine who entered the chamber; instead the door was pushed open by an unknown knight whose state showed that he had travelled long and hard. He was accompanied by a sergeant at arms of the Tower guard who protested the fellow’s importunity and apologised for the intrusion.
‘He insisted, my Lords, and carries a commission…’
The knight bore the look of a desperate man and, holding out his hand as if to reassure the Council that this lone fellow was not about to murder them, William rose to his feet. ‘I know you,’ he said, calling for wine, ‘you are of De Salignac’s mesnie. Here, take my seat.’
Near total collapse the exhausted knight sank into William’s vacated seat as the Council stared in apprehension at this strange disturbance.
‘There is no good news here,’ said Des Coutances anxiously awaiting the revivifying effects of the cup of wine, while John motioned for a goblet of his own. Eventually the man stirred, shook his head and looked about him.
‘My Lords,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I am in search of William Marshal, Lord of Striguil…’
‘Who sent you?’ Count John asked abruptly.
‘I bear news of my Lord the King.’ A frisson of trepidation r
an through the Council, all fearing the death of their distant monarch. Only Count John’s eye gleamed at the prospect.
‘What of him?’ he snapped.
‘He is taken prisoner by Duke Leopold of Austrian, my Lords, and a great ransom is to be demanded.’
‘By the Christ!’ blasphemed Briwerre. Des Coutances crossed himself as a low murmur ran round the table. It was broken by John who chuckled.
‘Taken prisoner, eh? Well, well; how Richard will enjoy his incarceration.’
The archbishop was the first to pull himself together. ‘Dost know the amount asked for?’
The knight shook his head. ‘No, my Lord Archbishop, only that the Duke avenges himself for some slight he had at the King’s hand during the crusade.’
‘Oh,’ John almost shouted, sitting up and slapping his thigh with something akin to undisguised glee. ‘My brother was ever intemperate!’
‘This will do you no good,’ snapped Des Coutances as the messenger stirred uneasily.
‘If it pleases your Lordships…’
‘Come fellow,’ said William offering an arm as the knight rose to his feet. ‘You shall have a bed.’
William led the knight out of the Council chamber in search of a couch and, as the man lay down an anxious William bent over him and asked, ‘what of Robert de Salignac?’
The knight’s eyes were closed and for a moment William thought him already asleep. Then he stirred and said: ‘Dead, my Lord, of a fever and a bloody flux…’
***
‘Gone? What? Into France?’
‘Aye Your Grace, for the time being, to do Philippe homage for his lands held in fief from the French crown,’ William explained, though there was little need for explanation to this shrewd old woman who had seen some seventy years come and go. It was more for his own comprehension that William laid out Count John’s perfidy. Such entanglements as occupied the Princes of the House of Anjou had always taxed William.
‘And the ransom?’ asked Queen Eleanor.
William Marshal Guardian of England- The Complete Series Page 39