The Greatest Knight (33 page)

“No,” William said, “but I am glad that they are not mine. They will tear their father and each other to pieces in their seeking after power. If Richard has to trample over his father’s body to take what he sees as his due, then he will do so, and John will follow the direction of best advantage to himself. My young lord was the same. He wanted power to wield, and in the end his wanting and his discontent were the end of him—God rest his soul.” He crossed himself.

“And yet you still desire Châteauroux for yourself?”

“I am not certain that I do,” he said thoughtfully, “but I am hoping that the King is open to negotiation.”

Heloise eyed him. “Then what do you want?”

“My bed for the moment,” he said with a finality in his tone that told her the questions had gone far enough.

“What about our game?” She indicated the chessboard.

“I concede,” he said. “There’s no shame in yielding to beauty.”

Heloise gave a small, forlorn smile. The shield of the courtier was firmly back in place and there would be no more getting round it tonight—or perhaps ever again. For a moment she hesitated, and then she ran to him, threw her arms around his waist, pressed her head to his chest, and hugged him fiercely. “Don’t forget me,” she said.

“As if I could.” His tone was wry, but his arms came around her and he returned her hug full measure.

Twenty-eight

Châtillon, French Border, October 1188

William and Baldwin de Béthune had billeted themselves in a wine merchant’s house in Châtillon. Arriving back from the counsel chamber, William left his squires to tend the horses and slumped on a bench in the main room, feeling drained to the marrow. At times like this, a quiet life in England’s North Country began to look very attractive. A summer of optimism was rapidly turning into a difficult autumn. Henry and Philip of France had been meeting and negotiating in sporadic fashion since July, but each time the outcome was the same. No agreement, escalating skirmishes, then a truce and another meeting more barren than the last. At first, Henry had had the upper hand, but matters had begun to curdle faster than three-day-old milk on a hot morning.

“At least the wine’s good,” Baldwin muttered as he handed a cup to William and sat down beside him. “You won’t find grape-treaders’ toe-parings in the lees.” The habit of making light remarks was ingrained and meant nothing for his mood was grim. “If I find out who started the rumour that Henry intends to pass over Richard and leave his crown to John, I’ll have his guts for girth straps.”

“You’d have to go to the French side to do that,” William said. “Philip will do his utmost to drive a wedge between Henry and Richard—and it won’t be hard, given their characters.” William accepted a cup from the squire. The scene between father and son had been ugly. They both had wills of iron and each thought himself the better ruler, one by dint of grit and long experience, the other bursting with ambition and fierce military talent. Younger than the King, older than Richard, William could see both sides of the frequent arguments between them, but tried to avoid becoming embroiled.

“Do you think he really would give England to John over Richard’s head?”

“I think that he would like to and I know that John eggs him on in all kinds of subtle ways to slight Richard…but if it comes to the sticking point, he won’t do it, not after the way he fought for his own right to rule when he was a young man.” William took several swallows of wine. “The situation is still dangerous. Richard doesn’t have the patience for such games—as we’ve just seen.” He grimaced at the memory of Richard storming out of the counsel with his father, saying that he would be damned in hell before he saw John take the throne. John had said nothing; he hadn’t needed to: his smirk had spoken volumes.

“Supposing Henry does disinherit Richard in favour of John?” Baldwin said sombrely. “What sort of king will John make? He was a disaster when his father sent him to Ireland.”

William shook his head. “He was too young to tackle Ireland, and his father should never have given him the responsibility. The King was ready for command at sixteen years old—we’ve heard the tales until they’ve worn grooves in our ears, but men don’t mature at the same rate—especially not the sons of great men. Our young lord was eight and twenty, but still a feckless lad when we buried him…God rest his soul.” William crossed himself, so did Baldwin. “John has the ability and the wits,” William added after a pause. “He’s as sharp as a needle, but too often he uses that sharpness to stab and wound, instead of sewing a good seam. He’s jealous and covetous too, especially of Richard.”

“If my brother were Richard, I would be jealous,” Baldwin replied. “He’s got the looks, the prowess, and a knack of making men want to follow him to the ends of the earth. John will never command that kind of loyalty.”

“No,” William agreed bleakly. When he had entered Queen Eleanor’s service, John had been an engaging imp with a ready smile. But Eleanor had not loved her last-born child; Henry had doted on him; between them, his parents had twisted him awry.

The men drank in morose silence while the sky bruised into dusk. “Have you approached the King about making good on his promise to you of Châteauroux?” Baldwin asked at length.

William shook his head. “Not yet.”

Baldwin eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you want her?”

“It’s a fine prize, but it’s going to be a hard fight to gain it, and will the King be willing to give it up when it comes to the point?” William turned his cup contemplatively between his hands. “Also it’s a long way from England.”

Baldwin snorted. “Says the man who has spent more than half of his life wandering the tourney roads through France and Flanders, and taken a pilgrim’s cross to Jerusalem.”

William smiled gravely. “Indeed, but perhaps when I am not warming my hands at the hellish fires of the court, I would prefer to be in England.”

“Then ask him for an English heiress instead.”

“That’s what I intend to—when I find an opportune moment. His mood’s too chancy just now. Anyone who asks for anything is likely to receive the sharp edge of his tongue.”

“Had you any particular heiress in mind?”

William set his cup on the scrubbed wooden board. “Isabelle de Clare.”

Baldwin pursed his lips assessingly and nodded. “The estates are not as valuable as Berry.”

William shrugged. “Almost, and they’re not on the French border.”

“Welsh and Irish though,” Baldwin smiled.

“That is a challenge, not a difficulty,” William answered and returned Baldwin’s smile, albeit that the curve of his lips was dour. “As matters stand, it’s not as if I am about to become a bridegroom soon, is it?”

***

In the morning the counsel resumed and William watched the situation between Henry and his eldest surviving son deteriorate as each man made demands untenable to the other. King Philip, who had instigated the dispute between father and son by declaring that he would retreat from the territory he had occupied if Henry would confirm Richard as his heir and see him married to his betrothed of twenty years, Alys, Philip’s half-sister, looked on like a spectator at a lion fight. Red in the face, fists clenched, Henry glared at the King of France and at Richard, whose own complexion was hectic.

“I will not be backed into a corner by your petty scheming,” he snarled at Philip. “I will designate my heir at a time of my choosing, not yours.”

Philip spread his hands. “It seems a fair enough compromise to me. Confirm your eldest son as your heir, see him wed to his bride in honour of your promise. He asks nothing that a reasonable father would not grant to his eldest son.”

“No,
you
ask!” Henry snarled, stabbing a short, nail-chewed forefinger at Philip. “It’s your intent to drive a wedge between me and my sons.”

“I do not need a wedge when you have a much larger one of your own,” Philip said. “Do not blame me for your troubles when they are all of your own making.” He extended his open palm towards Richard. “Confirm Richard as your heir; set his wedding day to my sister. That is all you have to do.”

Standing on guard at Henry’s side, William could see the King’s body shuddering with the force of his rage. Beside his father, John sat with the inscrutability of a cat, although William suspected that inside his mouth he was grinning from ear to ear. “I have to do nothing. You will not force me to it,” Henry said in a constricted voice. “All you will do is beget yourself a war that will cost you dear.”

Richard unfolded his long body and stood up. His grey eyes glittered like chips of polished serpentine as he turned towards his father. “No,” he said, “it will cost
you
dear. Why should I keep faith with you when you refuse to acknowledge my rights? Are you so eaten up with bitterness and your contrary will that you would leave your kingdom to a fool boy who’s proven he can neither rule men nor fight his way out of a flour sack?” He gestured contemptuously at his youngest brother. “You think he’s worthy? God’s death, everything he touches curdles and turns sour.”

John’s tawny gaze narrowed.

“It is not John who is curdling my gut,” Henry said. “Sit down.”

William’s right hand crawled involuntarily towards the hilt of his sword. Richard’s eyes flickered as he caught William’s intention and his own hand went to his gilded swordbelt. But instead of drawing his blade, he unbuckled the belt and slowly removed both it and the attached scabbard. Turning his back on his father and brother, he slowly approached the King of France and just as slowly knelt before him, laying the scabbard at his feet. “I hereby give you my homage for my lands of Normandy and Aquitaine,” he declared in a voice that rang around the hall, “and I swear you my fealty saving only that which I owe to my father the King.” The last words were loud and bitter. “And I beseech your aid should I be deprived of my rights as his heir.”

Henry leaped to his feet and had to be restrained by the Archbishop of Canterbury. “You purblind fool!” Henry raged. “Can’t you see that you’re being manipulated!”

Richard looked at his father, his own control deadly. “No,” he said in a voice husky with tension. “I have chosen freedom from manipulation. Look to the plank of wood in your own eye before you remove the mote of sawdust from mine!” Turning on his heel, summoning his retainers, he took up his swordbelt and strode from the hall.

Philip of France rose and also turned to leave. “War is upon you,” he said to Henry, “and of your own causing. If I ever envied you, then today I have been cured. You know where to seek if you come to your senses and desire not to see your heartlands burn beneath the wrath of your son. He has given me his fealty and I am honour bound to help him.”

Henry flung from the meeting in a blind rage, taking the opposite direction to Richard and Philip. When the Archbishop tried to remonstrate with him, he snatched the crozier out of the old man’s hand and hurled it like a spear. “By Christ I wish that my seed was barren when I see what it has brought forth!” he choked as William retrieved the crozier and pressed it back into the Archbishop’s hand. “They want war, I will give them war! I…Jesu!” Henry doubled over with a choking cry, his hands folded against his midriff.

The Earl of Chester hastened to support him, as did the Archbishop of Rouen. William sent an attendant running to fetch Henry’s physician. Filled with anxiety, his retainers bore him back to his chamber and laid him on the bed. Henry’s brow was beaded with droplets of pain. His body shook with rigors and he groaned through his clenched teeth.

“You see what Richard has done to him?” John said with a curl of his lip. “You see what his betrayal has wrought?”

“Come now,” said Ranulf of Chester, “the King has suffered these bouts before. You cannot lay all the blame at the lord Richard’s feet.”

“I can and I do,” John said icily.

William quietly absented himself from the group and went in search of Richard. He found him drinking wine in his chamber with his knights and in savage mood. William noted with alarm that his attendants were packing the baggage chests.

“If you have come to plead my father’s case, Marshal, you can save your breath,” Richard growled. “If my father wishes to speak to me, let him come himself, and with different words on his lips.”

“My lord, you should know that he is ailing,” William said.

Richard snorted down his nose. “He always ails when he cannot get his own way. You know as well as I do the spell that John works on him and that he has always loved me the least of his sons.”

William looked at the choler flushing Richard’s pale complexion. Men who had known his grandsire, Geoffrey le Bel of Anjou, said there was a strong resemblance. The latter had been goldenly handsome, volatile, and possessed of an acerbic intelligence. William could often see Eleanor in Richard too. There was the same determination to be the centre of attention. “I do not believe that he will deny you your rightful inheritance, my lord,” he said diplomatically.

“Has he told you outright that he will not?”

“No, my lord. Nor will he do so to any man, yourself included, while he is backed into a corner.”

Richard tightened his lips. “In what way is he ailing?” he asked suspiciously.

“A gripe of the belly. His physician is with him now.”

“Hah! I warrant it’s a surfeit of his own bile.” Richard pierced William with a bright grey stare. “Why do you stay with him, Marshal?”

“Because I gave him my oath when I returned from pilgrimage, and once given, only death can revoke it.”

“Yours or his?”

William said nothing and Richard’s expression became pitying. “I commend your loyalty,” he said, “but you were a fool to give it to him when you could have given it elsewhere—and for more than empty promises.”

William bit the inside of his lip, determined not to respond to Richard’s words. If you could avoid it, you never showed your opponent that he had hit home. “I owe him my fealty. I am a simple man, and I live by simple tenets.”

“You’re not simple, Marshal. You’ve more layers than a blade of pattern-hammered steel.”

“No, lord Richard. I am plain, unadorned iron, and true.”

“Sharp too…” With a smile and a shake of his head, Richard poured the lees of his cup into the floor rushes. “Tell my father that I am leaving, and that unless he agrees to my terms—which are not unreasonable—we will be at war, and he will not win.”

“My lord, please, will you not wait and reconsider?”

Richard looked hard at William. “No,” he said. “Let my father do the reconsidering.”

***

Rain slammed against the shutters as a full-blown autumn storm hurled the last of the leaves from the trees. Outside the sky was a scudding mass of ash-grey and charcoal clouds. Inside Henry’s chamber the beeswax candles fluttered in the draughts from ill-fitting shutters and braziers had been kindled to heat the room. Bundled up in a fur-lined cloak, Henry sat on his bed, a cup of hot wine between his hands. His stomach gripes had abated somewhat, but one of his attendants had told William that there had been blood in the King’s motions. “So, Richard has gone with the King of France,” Henry said to the men gathered in his chamber. “My sons destroy me and they destroy themselves. What am I to do?”