The western sky was staining with sunset crimson and gold when they saw the castle walls and cathedral spire of Rochester in the distance. A large throng was waiting, spreading across the road, and as they came into view, men on horseback rode out to meet them. When they were close enough for recognition, Richard spurred his stallion forward. He swung from the saddle just as Hubert Walter dismounted, and knelt at the archbishop’s feet. The watching crowd cheered wildly, and the Bishop of Rochester and the other churchmen were beaming, delighted by the king’s dramatic gesture of piety. Hubert knew it was more than that; it was also a personal acknowledgment of heartfelt gratitude, and his eyes filled with tears. He held out his hand to raise Richard to his feet and the two men embraced, setting off even more cheering. As if on cue, the city’s church bells began to peal, until all of Rochester seemed to be reverberating with celestial, melodious music.
THE TOP STORY OF Rochester Castle’s keep was bisected into a large private chamber and a great hall, where an informal council was in session. A trestle table had been set up for Richard, Eleanor, Hubert Walter, Gilbert, the Bishop of Rochester, Guillaume de Longchamp, André de Chauvigny, and William de St Mère-Eglise. All eyes were on Richard’s chief justiciar as Hubert began with the bad news.
“You may not have heard this yet, sire, but your brother made another treaty with the French king in January, in which he ceded all of Normandy east of the River Seine to Philippe, save only Rouen, as well as a number of important castles in the Loire Valley, including Loches. Of course John did not have actual control of these lands, but Philippe at once invaded Normandy again and the city of Évreux is now in his hands. John then sent his clerk, Adam of St Edmund, to London. This Adam brazenly came to pay his respects to me, and when I invited him to dine, hoping I could learn more, he drank enough wine to boast of John’s close friendship with the French king, your mortal enemy. I sent word to the mayor, who had Adam arrested at his lodgings. There, we discovered letters for the castellans of John’s castles, ordering them to stock up on provisions and to strengthen their garrisons in preparation for a long siege.”
Richard’s response was a sour smile. “It sounds as if John is in need of a better class of spy, at the very least one not so fond of wine.”
“I held a council meeting with the other justiciars and formally declared all of John’s lands in England forfeit. My fellow bishops and I then excommunicated him.” Hubert glanced almost apologetically toward Eleanor, but she showed no reaction to the casting out of her youngest son into eternal darkness.
There was a wine cup at Richard’s elbow and he took a swallow in a futile attempt to wash away the bad taste of his brother’s latest treachery. “What has been done about his castles?”
Hubert smiled. “At last I have good news to share with you, my liege. All but two of John’s castles are now in our control. William Marshal took Bristol Castle in February. I captured Marlborough Castle, whilst William Marshal’s faithless brother, its castellan, was mortally wounded in the fighting. I am pleased to report that my own brother Theobald, also John’s sworn man, has seen the error of his ways and yielded Lancaster Castle to me. And in Cornwall, Henry de la Pommeraye no longer holds St Michael’s Mount for John; he died of fright upon learning that you’d regained your freedom.” Seeing Richard’s skepticism, he smiled again. “It is true, sire. When he heard this, he gasped, clutched his chest, and went down like a felled tree.”
That evoked laughter, which ended, though, when Hubert revealed that the two castles still holding out were the formidable strongholds of Tickhill and Nottingham. Tickhill was under siege by the Bishop of Durham, Hubert told them, and the earls of Chester, Huntingdon, and Derby were leading the assault upon Nottingham.
Richard was pleased to hear that the Earl of Huntingdon was taking part in the siege, for he was the brother of the Scots king and his presence at Nottingham was further proof of King William’s friendship. Upon taking the crown, Richard had agreed to let William buy back for ten thousand marks those castles William had been forced to surrender to Henry after the Great Rebellion of 1174 and recognized Scotland’s independence. Richard had received some criticism for it at the time, but he thought the goodwill he’d gained was worth far more than ten thousand marks; William had even made a substantial contribution to the ransom. Making a mental note to invite William for a state visit once John’s rebellion was crushed, Richard glanced around the table at his mother and the men who’d never lost faith in him, no matter how dire his prospects seemed.
“I may have more than my share of enemies,” he said, “but I have been blessed in my friends. I have not felt truly freed from Heinrich’s yoke until now, finding myself back on English soil.”
They all smiled, several of them blinking hard, and Eleanor reached over to squeeze her son’s arm. André rescued them from this looming sentimental storm by saying dryly, “My lord archbishop, I hope you will see that my cousin’s words are widely circulated. It never hurts a king to declare his love for his homeland, even one with such wretched weather and wine.”
Midst the ensuing laughter, Richard discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that he’d actually meant it. Aquitaine would always have the first claim upon his heart, and in truth, he agreed with André about England’s weather and wine. But he’d not realized how much he valued his island kingdom until he’d come so close to losing it.
They were rising to go to their beds—Richard was impatient to reach his, since he had a woman waiting in it—when Hubert Walter remembered he’d not told the king about the shocking news from Sicily. “My liege, two days ago we received a letter from Rome. The King of Sicily is dead.”
Even though he’d heard Tancred had been ailing, Richard had not expected this. He felt a throb of regret, for he’d developed a genuine respect for the Sicilian king and he’d been hopeful that Tancred, a much better soldier than Heinrich, would be able to fend off the coming German invasion.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said, “very sorry.” He’d met Tancred’s eldest son during the five days he’d spent at Tancred’s court in Catania, and he tried to remember how old Roger was then. Sixteen, mayhap seventeen, which would make him nineteen now. No longer a stripling, yet young to shoulder such a burden.
“Roger is a good lad; I liked him. I am sure the Sicilian lords will rally around him, but it will not be easy to win his war.”
Hubert was shaking his head sadly. “Roger is dead, too, sire. He died unexpectedly in December, so suddenly that some spoke of poison. Tancred’s heir is now his four-year-old son.”
“Christ Jesus,” Richard said softly, feeling a stab of pity for Tancred, who’d died knowing that both his dynasty and his kingdom were doomed, for few would dare to defy Heinrich on behalf of a child king. The German emperor would lay claim to Sicily, financing his campaign with the ransom money he’d extorted from England, and untold thousands would suffer under his heavy-handed rule. Richard could only wonder, with both bitterness and bafflement, why the Almighty had let any of this happen.
JOANNA AND BERENGARIA WERE euphoric upon receiving a papal letter informing them that Richard had been freed two days after Candlemas. They did not expect to hear from Richard or Eleanor until their return to England, and they spent much of their time discussing how long that journey would take. Since they were ignorant of German geography and lacked any German maps, they could only speculate. Berengaria confided that she was a little nervous about their reunion. She’d been taken aback to realize that she and Richard had now been apart as long as they’d been together; the sixteen months from their wedding in Cyprus to her departure from the Holy Land matched by the sixteen months since their Acre farewell. She was eager to see England for the first time and Joanna did her best to satisfy her curiosity about Richard’s realm, although Joanna’s memories were faded by the passage of time. It was nigh on eighteen years since she’d left England on her bridal journey to Sicily.
Their anxious waiting came to an end on March
25. Joanna and Berengaria were playing a game of chess in the latter’s bedchamber when a servant informed them that a messenger from King Richard had just ridden in. Berengaria hurriedly covered her hair with a veil—Joanna did not bother—and they flew down the stairs into Eleanor’s magnificent great hall. There they came to an abrupt halt, and for the moment, the messenger mattered more than the message.
“Cousin Morgan!” As soon as he’d made a gallant bow, Joanna caught his hand in both of hers, her smile bright enough to light the darkest corners of the hall. “How glad we are to see you!”
“We are, indeed,” Berengaria agreed, with a luminous smile of her own, for she was fond of Joanna’s Welsh cousin. “How wonderful that my husband thought to send you to us!”
Morgan grinned. “As soon as we reached London, he said he needed a man to carry letters to Poitiers. I’d gladly have groveled and begged for the honor, but he spared me that, merely saying he hoped I’d remember to come back.” When they asked if Richard was still in London, he shook his head, saying Richard was likely at the siege of Nottingham by now. He began to tell them of Richard’s welcome into the city, but Joanna noted the way his gaze was sweeping the hall and she beckoned to Dame Beatrix, telling her to find Mariam.
“I’d never seen anything like it,” Morgan confessed. “Someone told me London has twenty-five thousand citizens, and I vow every last one of them turned out to see the king. The mayor was there, and the Bishop of London, of course, the city sheriffs, aldermen, priests, merchants, journeymen, apprentices—so many people that I could not have thrown a stone without hitting someone. They escorted the king and his lady mother to St Paul’s through streets hung with banners and swept so clean the rakers must have been laboring all night long. At the cathedral, a special Mass was said and the bishop offered up prayers of thanksgiving, praising the Almighty for restoring the king to them. I think even the cutpurses and thieves took the day off.”
Morgan grinned again, almost adding that the whores in the Southwark stews had likely done a thriving business afterward, but thinking better of it in time, for Berengaria did not share Joanna’s bawdy sense of humor. “Now, what did I forget? Ah yes, the letters. They must be in here somewhere,” he teased, pretending to root around in his leather pouch. But then he happened to glance up and saw the woman just entering the hall.
Morgan and Mariam’s flirtation had begun with their first meeting in Sicily, but they’d not become lovers until their second summer in Outremer, for an army camp was not the ideal place for clandestine trysts. Although they’d sought to be as discreet as possible, Morgan had often suspected their efforts were futile, and his suspicions were confirmed when Richard chose him for this mission. If even the king knew he was besotted with Mariam, clearly their love affair was one of the worst-kept secrets in Christendom. But if there were any innocent souls still in the dark, that ended now when, with an utter disregard for propriety, Mariam flung herself into his arms. He pulled her close, holding her as tightly as he’d hungered to do during those long, dark nights in Germany, kissing her until they both were breathless. Only then did he remember the letters and handed them over with a sheepish smile before turning back to Mariam.
Berengaria eagerly broke the seal of her husband’s letter. She had an expressive face and when she looked up, her distress was obvious to all in the hall. “Joanna, he says I should remain in Poitiers instead of joining him in England!”
Joanna had received two letters, one from her brother and one from her mother. She’d already scanned Richard’s brief message and was reading Eleanor’s when Berengaria cried out in dismay. “He is going to be occupied putting down John’s rebellion,” she said, hoping she sounded convincing.
Morgan tore his attention away from Mariam long enough to say, “That is indeed true, my lady. Despite the joyous welcome he received in London, the king stayed there but one day, so impatient was he to get to the siege of Nottingham. It would make no sense for you to travel all the way to London when he’d be over a hundred miles to the north.”
Berengaria was not yet ready to concede defeat. “But why could I not join him at Nottingham? I often lived in an army camp during our stay in Outremer.”
“That was different, my lady,” Morgan said earnestly. “Men do not take their wives campaigning, for it is dangerous as well as distracting.”
“Richard once told me that if he’d had it to do again, he was not sure he’d have brought us with him to the Holy Land,” Joanna chimed in, “for worrying about our safety just added to his concerns.”
“Yes . . . he said that to me, too,” Berengaria admitted. “I would certainly not want to be a burden, and of course I will await him here in Poitiers if that be his wish. It is just that we’ve been apart so long. . . .”
“Waiting will be much easier for us now,” Joanna said, “for we will no longer have to fear Heinrich’s treachery.” She was very disappointed herself, for she yearned to see her mother even more than Richard. After being separated for fifteen years, she’d had only four days with Eleanor at Messina before her mother had hastened to Rome on a diplomatic mission for Richard. She was tempted to go on her own to England, but how could she leave Berengaria alone in Poitiers? She was thankful that her sister-in-law seemed resigned now to the delay, and even more thankful that Berengaria had not thought to ask if Eleanor would be accompanying Richard to Nottingham. Glancing down again at her mother’s letter, she resolved to lie if Berengaria did ask later. Once she and Richard were finally reunited, none of this would matter.
Crossing to the younger woman, she put an arm affectionately around her sister-in-law’s slender shoulders. “At least we’ll now have a trustworthy eyewitness account of Richard’s tribulations during this past year.” Berengaria brightened at that reminder. But when they looked around for Morgan, he and Mariam had disappeared.
“Well, we may have to wait awhile longer for that,” Joanna said, with such a mischievous smile that, although Berengaria felt fornication was a serious sin, she could not help returning the smile, thinking that she was so lucky to have Richard’s sister as her friend.
Even as she sought to reassure Berengaria, Joanna felt an unwelcome spark of envy. She did not begrudge Mariam her good fortune, her happiness with Morgan. It was just that she was twenty-eight and she’d been sleeping alone for more than four years. She was lonely. And against her will, she found herself thinking of a man with sapphire-blue eyes, an easy smile, and dangerously seductive charm.
ON THE SAME DAY that Morgan arrived at Poitiers, Richard reached Nottingham. From London, he’d stopped at St Edmundsbury to do honor to his favorite saint, and then continued north. At Huntingdon, William Marshal caught up with him. Marshal had chosen to meet his king rather than attend the funeral for his black-sheep brother, who’d not only been one of John’s men, but who’d played a suspicious role in the massacre of York’s Jews when he’d held the post of Yorkshire’s sheriff. Will was sure that Richard did not blame him for his brother’s sins, for the king had recently named another brother to the See of Exeter. But these were perilous times for those with more than one liege lord. Just as some of Richard’s vassals were also the liegemen of the French king, Will owed homage to John for his Irish estates, and he did not want the Angevin king to doubt where his first loyalty lay. Richard welcomed him with enough warmth to assure him this was not a concern, and they rode on together to the siege.
FROM THE CASTLE BATTLEMENTS, the constables of Nottingham, Ralf Murdoc and William de Wendeval, watched the commotion below in the siege camp. Trumpets were blaring, horns blasting, drums pounding, and it was obvious even at a distance that something of note was occurring. William, who was shortsighted, struggled to make out what was happening. “Do you think the king could have arrived?” he asked uneasily, but the other man scoffed at that.
“Do not tell me you believe that nonsense about Richard coming back? They know the castle can hold out till Judgment Day, so they are trying to trick us with lies and
falsehoods. Richard will never regain his freedom and that means Lord John will be England’s king. I know it, you know it, and those stubborn fools down there know it, too. We need only outwait them and pay no heed to their fanciful claims.”
What Ralf said made sense. With so much at stake, the French king and Lord John would pay any amount to keep Richard caged. Yet as William gazed down at the turmoil in the enemy camp, he could not stifle his inner voice. What if the Lionheart really has returned?
THE WELCOME RICHARD HAD received in English towns and villages paled in comparison with the reception he got at Nottingham. Many of the soldiers had fought with him in past campaigns, and he was mobbed by men who were delighted that he was free, and even happier that he was here, for none doubted that his presence would guarantee victory; by now, Richard’s reputation as a battlefield commander had become a weapon in and of itself.
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