The Greatest Knight (44 page)

John flushed. “She’d begun her fluxes,” he said defensively, and rubbed his hands together as if washing them. “She took me to task over one of the Marlborough whores I’d had in my bed and I said that she’d not like the alternative.”

William’s nostrils flared. “You raped her?”

John shook his head in vigorous negation. “Why do you think the worst of me? No, I didn’t rape her! She was willing to do her duty—insistent, in fact, for it was she who came to me. I was drunk and I hurt her, but it wasn’t rape. I wish it hadn’t happened but sometimes things unravel despite the best of intentions. I didn’t touch her again, but once was enough. At least she didn’t die.”

Isabelle looked over her shoulder, her underlip caught in her teeth. “Oh, John,” she said softly with appalled dismay and compassion.

“You wouldn’t want to walk a mile in my shoes just now,” he said wearily and stood up. “I’ll wait for you in the courtyard.”

“God’s bones,” William cursed as the door closed behind John. He released the tension of the moment in a long shudder and crossing the chamber began jerkily to gird on his sword. Isabelle finished feeding the baby, handed him to the nurse, and hastened to her husband. William adjusted the weight of the blade at his hip and took her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I lost my temper,” he said. “I should not have done that.”

“Better than letting the anger fester within you,” she replied. “You had to say those things to him for both your sakes.”

He was silent for a moment, then he sighed. “He is right though. There is a reverse side to the coin of my honour.”

She tightened her grip on his arms. “Then that makes you a whole man, and I count your honour untarnished.”

William regarded her with a deep swelling of affection. She was half his age, yet she had a feminine wisdom that outstripped his own paltry efforts at sagacity. “Ah, Isabelle,” he said softly, and kissed her with gratitude and tenderness before going out to find his brother.

Thirty-seven

London, Christmas 1190

Isabelle watched her son crawl across the floor of Madam FitzReinier’s solar towards the coloured ball she had just rolled for him. Occasionally his coordination failed and he shuffled backwards or had to pause to decide which limb to move next, but he was determined.

“Men are so delightful at this age,” declared Madam FitzReinier. “What a pity they have to grow up.”

Isabelle laughed. “There’s some truth in that,” she agreed, “although I shall enjoy watching him develop. I wonder if he’ll look like William.”

“Likely so,” said Madam FitzReinier. “He has the same good nature.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen him yet when he’s tired and hungry,” Isabelle said.

“The babe or your husband?” the dame jested.

Isabelle giggled. “No, they’re not at all the same. My son will scream and fret. William just grows quiet and sombre.” The mirth left her expression. “These are difficult times,” she said softly as she watched the infant stretch small fat fingers for the ball that was just beyond his reach. He gave a squeal of impatience, tried harder, and went backwards instead.

“And worse to come before they get better,” Madam FitzReinier predicted gloomily. “Between the ambitions of the Bishop of Ely and Prince John, we’ll be ground like grain between two millstones.”

Isabelle sighed agreement. York had only been the beginning of Longchamp’s bid for power. Two months after that, while she and William were still in Normandy, he had attempted Gloucester Castle and only the arrival of the Bishop of Winchester with a substantial escort of soldiers had forced him to back down. Longchamp had stripped his fellow justiciar, the Bishop of Durham, of his powers and ridden like a roughshod conqueror throughout England, his power bolstered by a large band of mercenaries. Richard, overwintering in Sicily, had done little to curb his chancellor’s excesses. Perhaps Longchamp’s ability to squeeze funds out of every last corner and crevice mattered more to Richard than the complaints coming from those who were being squeezed.

A commotion in the yard heralded the return of the men from their visit to the wharves where FitzReinier had been eager to show off his new barge to William. It had been an excuse as well for the men to stretch their legs and leave the women to their own gossip. The baby finally reached his ball, grasped it in his chubby hand, sat up, and threw it down again, his lower lip thrust out in concentration. Deed accomplished, he squealed at his own cleverness and looked round at his mother in search of praise. But Isabelle wasn’t paying attention to her son, she was listening to the voices of the men as they mounted the outer stairs to the solar. Worryingly, they were not filled with the pleasure and bonhomie she would have expected from their outing, but were muted and anxious. When they entered the room, their expressions were bleak.

The baby abandoned his ball and stretched his arms towards his father, demanding to be picked up. William did so, but the gesture was instinctive, without conscious thought.

“What is it?” asked Isabelle. “What’s happened now?”

FitzReinier advanced to the brazier to warm his hands. “I am a loyal man,” he said, “and I bow the knee to my King, but I begin to wonder if he will have a kingdom to return to. One of my men came to me at the warehouse with grave news.” “One of my men” was a euphemism for “spy,” of which FitzReinier had as efficient a network as any magnate or prelate in the land. “Longchamp claims to have a letter from Richard designating his nephew Arthur of Brittany as his heir should he die whilst on crusade and entrusting Longchamp as regent.”

“But Arthur of Brittany is still a child in smocks,” Isabelle said. “How can Richard choose a baby above his adult brother?”

“Whim, spleen, misrepresentation,” FitzReinier said curtly. “And Longchamp is not above forging documents, as Hugh of Durham could tell you. Longchamp owns a copy of Richard’s seal and he doesn’t always use it for legitimate purposes.”

“Does Prince John know about this?” Isabelle looked anxiously at her husband. This could well be disastrous for them. As a royal sub-justiciar, William was supposed to support Longchamp, but it was already proving difficult. To defend the haughty Bishop as regent would be beyond swallowing. Yet refusing to do so was treason.

“He must do by now,” William said. “The same messengers will have gone to him. He’ll be putting his castellans on alert and stocking his castles to defy Longchamp even as we speak. God knows what’s to be done.”

Isabelle thought about Madam FitzReinier’s comment that they would be caught like a grain between two millstones. There had to be a way of pegging Longchamp’s ambition while still keeping Prince John sweet. “Perhaps a woman’s touch is what is needed,” she said after a moment.

“Meaning?” William asked.

“The Queen,” Isabelle said. “She has no love for William Longchamp and Richard will listen to her. He trusts her advice and she may be able to sway his opinion. She won’t want to see her family dominions ruled by a pederast priest on behalf of a three-year-old. If the sub-justiciars send their letters to her, rather than straight to Richard, she may be able to intervene and make him more disposed to listen.”

William looked at her, and the frown between his brows lessened. “That’s a sound notion, my love—a woman’s touch indeed.”

Isabelle flushed at his praise. The tense atmosphere that had entered the room with the men eased a little. An attendant brought two silver-gilt platters heaped with pastry wafers and gingerbread, and flagons of hot, sweet wine. William gave one of the wafers to Will to maul with his new teeth and set him back down on the floor.

Between them, they drafted a letter to Queen Eleanor. William summoned his scribes and had them write fair copies to the other justiciars, whose approval and additions would be sought before the message was sent. Another letter went to William’s brother John who was attending on Prince John. “For what good it will do,” William said as he pressed his seal into the soft red wax. “My brother is the Prince’s man first and he won’t have the strength or inclination to rein him back.”

FitzReinier cleared his throat. “If you had to decide between the Prince and Longchamp, what choice would you make?”

“The right one, I hope,” William said, his gaze on his infant son.

***

William had known Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, for most of his adult life, although their acquaintance had only deepened over the last few years. Walter, like William, was of English birth, a stocky red-faced Cornishman with a fluffy white tonsure and benign mien masking a will of iron. His nephew was married to Heloise of Kendal and he and William were natural allies. The Archbishop had set out on crusade with the King, but had turned back at Cyprus with a slew of royal orders including a remit to aid in the governing of England that gave him authority over Longchamp.

Sitting in council with him and the other sub-justiciars at Westminster, William digested the letters that de Coutances had just read out. “So this means,” William said slowly, “that if Longchamp ignores our advice and guidance and stirs up trouble, we have the authority to override him and depose him from office?”

“That is indeed the case, my lord,” replied the Archbishop with a dry smile. “My brief and yours”—here he included all the sub-justiciars in his glance—“is to steer a path between the rocks of the various factions and keep the ship intact for the King’s return. Providing my lord Longchamp consults with us and is governed by our advice, he is to be allowed to conduct his business as he sees fit—as long as he is within the law. These letters are not to be shown to him or used unless it becomes necessary. Should the chancellor come to hear of them in a premature way, it is possible that he might seek to take countermeasures. Do I make myself clear?”

“Eminently, my lord,” said Geoffrey FitzPeter. “I speak for us all when I say that no one will breathe a word of this, but I do not think we will have to keep these letters secret for long.”

“That remains to be seen,” said de Coutances. He flicked a warning glance around his fellow justiciars. “We need to act swiftly if it does, but not in the haste of men desiring to precipitate a quarrel. We must stay within the law.”

His words were met with muted murmurs of assent.

“We are only grateful and relieved that the King has sent you to us,” said Geoffrey FitzPeter. “God knows we would have been struggling without you.”

De Coutances’s smile was dry. “Your thanks should go to Queen Eleanor,” he said. “It was her word above all others that persuaded the King he had to act.” His small, shrewd eyes fixed knowingly on William. “It was a good thing that your messages reached her on the road.”

William returned the smile. “Yes,” he said, “it was.”

De Coutances shuffled the parchments on the trestle before him and neatened them together. “I have more news for you to digest, and celebrate,” he said and, folding his hands on top of the parchments, proceeded to tell them.

***

Following the council, William had his barge rowed upriver to his manor at Caversham where Isabelle was awaiting him, together with a modicum of peace and quiet—if the bustle of a large baronial household could be called peace and quiet. There were letters to be dictated, messengers to send on their way, supplicants and vassals to see, household officers and knights of the mesnie to consult. However, they could wait a few hours. First, he needed to refresh himself and talk matters over with his wife.

Clad only in shirt and braies, he lay on their bed in the solar chamber, his head pillowed in her lap against the swell of her belly. She had conceived again in January, was just entering her sixth month of pregnancy, and was as stately as the swans gliding on the river beyond the manor house. Glittering motes of dust hung in the sunlight crossing the foot of the bed. Their son was tumbling on the floor with an infant of a similar age belonging to one of the knights and watched over by a vigilant nurse. He had given Isabelle the news concerning the success of her letters to Queen Eleanor and had taken pleasure and pride in the gleam of satisfaction it brought to her eyes. “I know men who don’t give a fig for the opinions of their wives, but they are the poorer for such blindness,” he said.

“Ah, but if you disagreed with my opinion, you wouldn’t follow it,” she answered with a knowing smile. “You’d tell me to mind my distaff and you would go your own way.”

“I’d tell you no such thing,” William said indignantly, “even if I did go my own way…but that’s not going to happen. We both want the best for Striguil and our children. Don’t you want to hear the rest of de Coutances’s news?”

She gave his hair a tug, not enough to hurt, but sufficient as a warning. In truth, he had the right of it when he said that they both wanted the best for their lands and their offspring. And he did seek her opinions and include her in every aspect of their rule. No one was in any doubt that she was the Countess of Striguil. On the documents to which he set his seal, he never styled himself an earl and still used the small oval seal of his knighthood. It amused—even exasperated—her sometimes that he took only what was his by right and refused the extra trappings that he could have possessed without anyone cavilling, least of all her. “Tell me, what news?”

“By now King Richard will be a married man. Eleanor was on the road bringing Berengaria, daughter of King Sancho of Navarre, to Cyprus for their wedding.”

Isabelle’s mouth opened to ask a question and remained like that for several moments. “Jesu!” she said at last. “Why? Were there any plans before he left?”

“Not that I know of, although his mother might have had them, and Richard himself keeps his inner thoughts and schemes well hidden. I suppose there are reasons to do with Aquitaine and Poitou that made sense to take a Navarrese bride. I do not think he was ever going to marry Alys of France. Richard has ever looked to the south rather than the north.”

Isabelle resumed stroking his hair. “So it is likely that the King will soon beget an heir,” she said thoughtfully.

“Certainly if God is good. It didn’t take us long.” William spoke with conviction and hoped that the rumours concerning the King’s predilections were like most court gossip: untrue.

“What will that do to Prince John? He’s already on edge because of what Richard said about making his nephew his heir.”

“I think that issue has been resolved of its own accord in John’s favour. No English baron is going to swear for a French-backed Breton brat of three years old above a man of four and twenty with Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine for parents.” He rubbed his jaw. “Of course, Richard’s heir would be a different matter…I suppose it would depend how much John’s ambition eats him up. I know full well that he envies Richard his possessions and he craves power and adulation. You’ve seen what he is like for yourself. But how far he would go…” He shook his head. “Only John knows that.”

“Does he? I think perhaps he doesn’t.” Isabelle shivered. John’s charisma was powerful and she was not immune to it, but she had an intuitive awareness of the dark twists in his soul. He wasn’t to be trusted, and in his turn he trusted no one and sought to strike before being struck. Quickly she pressed her palms over William’s eyes while she composed her expression. “I am troubling you with John when you have Longchamp to deal with,” she said lightly.

William snorted. “In truth I don’t want to talk about either of them.” Abruptly, as if shutting off his thoughts in movement, he sat up and turned and placed his hand upon her belly. “Richard,” he said. “We’ll call the new little one Richard—or Richenda if it’s a girl.”