The Scarlet Lion (5 page)

   Hubert Walter's informants reported that John was in Brittany, visiting Arthur, his twelve-year-old nephew, who was the other nearest claimant to Richard's throne. Whether John's sojourn was purely social, or involved dubious plots and mischief, was open to conjecture, but if Richard succumbed to his wound and Arthur chose to assert his own claim, John was in serious danger.

   Heaving a troubled sigh, William lay down. Beyond the door, he could hear his servants talking in the antechamber as they prepared for sleep. In the light from the candle flame, he raised then bent his right arm and scrutinised the powerful swell of muscle and corded sinew. He still had the strength and tone of a man holding on to his prime, still retained a fierce appetite for life. Knowing it could be snatched from him at any moment made that appetite all the keener. He had spent most of his adult existence travelling in the company of various Kings of England—had watched them die one by one, whilst he journeyed on, feeling ever more exposed. Richard was forty-one, ten years his junior, a survivor of crusade and imprisonment. It would be ironic if he succumbed now because of a grubby little dispute over treasure.

   The marshal of the Tower had discreetly offered William the comfort of one of the castle whores. He had declined, but admitted to himself that the warmth of a woman in his bed would have been a welcome distraction tonight. "Ah, Isabelle," he said softly. He needed her here so that he could talk to her about the situation with Richard and, in so doing, find a way through, before losing himself in the pleasure and comfort of lovemaking. He wanted to look in the cradle and watch his infant son sleep in milky bliss, to play-fight with the older boys and teach all the songs he knew to Mahelt. He wanted to live to see his offspring wed and bring children of their own to the feast table.

   Restlessly, he left the bed and, kneeling on the floor, prayer beads looped between his fingers, entreated God to grant him the grace of such a future in these precarious times.

   Outside, the murmur of the servants ceased. He heard the outer door open, then another voice, the tone urgent. A moment later came the knock on his own door he had been expecting and dreading. "Come," he said loudly, already reaching for his tunic and thrusting his feet into his boots.

   Osbert, his chamberlain, poked his head round the door and ushered one of Hubert's messengers into the room, a young monk, his fingers brown with ink stains.

   "My lord." He bowed. "The Archbishop summons you to his presence at once. There is urgent news from King Richard's camp."

   He was dead then. The news of Richard's recovery would have been cause for smiles and relief and a different atmosphere. Nodding acknowledgement to the monk, William pinned his tunic at the neck and, after a brief hesitation, reached for and latched on his swordbelt. He knew it was foolish, but he felt as if he needed something to arm himself against the trouble that was coming. He bade his squires fetch Jean D'Earley and Jack Marshal from the hall and have them meet him in the Archbishop's chambers at le Pré. "And do it quietly, lads," he cautioned. "Men will be settling to sleep and there is no cause to wake them just yet."

   Across the Seine at le Pré, the Archbishop's apartment was ablaze with lamps and beeswax candles, the sweet honey smell permeating the air and creating a soft heat haze. Indeed, the level of industry made the chamber not unlike a bee skep at the height of midsummer. The chamber resonated with the scratching of quills on vellum. Every scribe, priest, attendant, and cleric capable of holding a quill had been set to work drafting the letters and writs that would soon be winging to every prelate and magnate, informing of a royal death.

   Hubert Walter sat at a lectern himself, reading a document. He was dressed in his robes of office, although his mitre was perched on the bench beside him and his tonsure was covered merely with a plain dark bonnet. An ornate crosier lay along the edge of the trestle, the shepherd's crook fashioned of ivory carved with the image of the Lamb of God. He looked up as William was announced and handed what he had been reading to the scribe at his side. "Good," he said. "Make a dozen fair copies." Then, folding his hands, he turned his attention to William. "Grievous tidings from the Limousin," he said and indicated a creased sheet of vellum lying beside his mitre.

   "I knew the moment your messenger came for me." William too pointed at the vellum sheet. "Queen Eleanor's seal," he said.

   Hubert nodded. "She was at Fontevrault, but she reached him in time, riding day and night. The wound festered and poisoned his body. He was dead even before we received that first message."

   "God rest his soul." Feeling numb, William crossed himself and with his eyes still on Eleanor's seal, thought this would likely kill her. Of the five sons she had borne, Richard had been her favourite: great, golden, magnificent Richard, the child on whom she had lavished her hopes, her dreams, and most of her maternal affection. Four sons were dead now; only the lees of the cup remained. "Did Richard name his successor?"

   The Archbishop cast him a shrewd look. "Supposedly, but there are doubts. Everything hangs in the balance, and you and I, Marshal, hold the weights to tip the scales." He passed his tongue over his lips, but whether in relish or trepidation, William could not tell.

   "If you say he named his successor, what is there to doubt?" he asked sharply.

   Hubert unclasped his hands and opened them towards William. "As with many making their end, perhaps he didn't want to admit how close death rode him until it was too late. This letter tells me that William de Braose was the only man near enough to hear Richard name John as his heir, but do we take de Braose's word for that nomination?"

   "Is there reason not to?"

   The Archbishop's upper lip curled. "De Braose is as scant with the truth as he is at washing before he eats."

   William wondered what Hubert was pushing at. De Braose was William's neighbour in Ireland and the Welsh Marches. As such he kept on working terms with the man, who was bluff, crude, and self-serving, but nevertheless amicable and an ally. "Queen Eleanor believes him."

   "It is in her interests to do so," the Archbishop said drily. "John is her son."

   "Indeed, but I see no reason for conflict." William waved his hand. "Look at the matter in a practical light, my lord. That letter is all we have for the moment and it says Richard named John his heir. You cannot question de Braose until he returns from escorting the body and that will be some days hence—we do not have such time to spare."

   His expression less than sanguine, the Archbishop nevertheless had to admit the truth of their predicament. William pressed his point. "John is a grown man, the son of a King, and a proven warrior these last five years. He knows these lands and the people; he has been born and bred to them. Supposing Richard did name Arthur as his heir, what do we have? A malcontent beardless boy with no knowledge of England, Normandy, or Anjou, and living in the pocket of the French. Do you really want to be ruled by a puppet child controlled by Philip of France?"

   "Yes, Marshal, but we can wean the boy away from such influences. We can break and train him like a young horse, whereas John…" Hubert let the words hang in the air where they grew in potency. "We have both had enough dealings with him to know his nature. Your own brother was his man and came to grief because of it."

   William compressed his lips at Hubert Walter's manipulative reference to his elder brother. John Marshal had died defending the keep of Marlborough when the Prince had raised revolt in England during Richard's absence. "My brother knew his road when he took it." An edge to his voice warned the Archbishop not to pluck that particular string.

   Hubert steepled his hands under his chin. "We must think hard on our own road, Marshal. We have this one chance to change things and it will be gone by the morning."

   William hesitated, but not because he was deliberating over his decision, which had never been in doubt. Rather it was a pause to gather his mental strength. "Seven years ago I was faced with a choice between Arthur and John. Richard was on crusade and the Bishop of Ely was trying to make a case for Arthur's right to rule us, should Richard die. I refused then, and I refuse now because John has the better claim."

   "You have your feet on a very slippery ladder," the Archbishop warned.

   Hubert's words made William think of the siege ladder at Milli. He almost smiled, although there was no reason for humour. "I hope I have enough experience by now to stay attached."

   Hubert pursed his lips, deliberating, then sighed and threw up his hands in capitulation. "As you wish, Marshal, but I suspect you will never regret any decision more."

"But you agree to it?"

   "I accede to it, which is a different matter," the Archbishop said darkly. "You have vast goodwill and influence with the English barons and if you put your weight behind John's cause, they will cleave to him, because of you. The Normans will take John over Arthur because they do not trust the Bretons and the French. Better the devil they know. I cannot swim against two such forceful tides." He gestured an attendant to replenish the cup at his side and fill one for William. "The choice is made and we have now to decide how to steer a course between dangerous shoals."

   The wine was sugared hippocras, of which the Archbishop was fond. The pungent scent of the spices stung William's nostrils and the polite sip he took almost made him gag. "We have to get John out of Brittany," he said after a valiant swallow. "As soon as the Bretons hear of this, they'll do all in their power to stop him from reaching Normandy."

   Hubert was unperturbed. "I have two of my best men with horses saddled up and ready to ride. They'll find John and get him safely away before the Bretons can move against him."

   William set his cup down, his palate cloyed almost beyond bearing. He pitied any man who was an enemy of the powerful, ruthless Hubert Walter. Should the decision have gone the other way, those saddled horsemen would be riding to Brittany with a message for Prince Arthur and John would never see the sky beyond a prison window again.

                             *** It was late at night, all the candles extinguished save one, burning on a tall iron stand at the bedside. Cradling Walter in the bend of her left arm Isabelle suckled him at her breast. It was pleasant to have this time with her son, to sit and be quiet and enjoy the moment. Walter was at the enchanting stage where he was beginning to smile and respond. One small hand was wrapped tightly around a tress of her hair and his eyes were focused on her face as he drank. He was going to have fair hair and blue eyes like herself rather than William's winter-hazel. She sang softly to him, an Irish lullaby that she could remember Aine, her nurse, singing to her and her brother in their childhood. She did not know what the words meant but they were soft and the tune was gently wistful.

"Crid hé
Daire cnó
Ócán é
Pocán dó."

   A week ago, she had been buoyed up by the thought of their imminent visit to Ireland, but all that had changed with William's first terse letter, and then his return this morning on a lathered courser. Ireland was again to be pushed away into the mist as William prepared to go to England instead, and alone. All day he had been consulting with his clerks and the knights of the mesnie, making plans, arranging details. He hadn't stopped since riding in from Rouen. She had packed his baggage chests and made sure he had sufficient travelling provisions. She had spoken to their stewards and chamberlains and prepared herself to govern their estates in his absence.

"Crid hé
Daire cnó
Ócán é
Pocán do."

William entered the room, prowling on the balls of his feet like a cat, his edginess almost as tangible as the tension in her hair when she combed it vigorously enough to hear sparks. He was always like this when there was a campaign in the offing, whether of diplomacy or battle. She hoped he had the energy to sustain him through this particular one. He still possessed a young man's vigour and zest, but Isabelle had not forgotten how the squabbles over England during Richard's absence on crusade and subsequent imprisonment had drained that vitality perilously low.

   Walter had fallen asleep at her breast. Gently she prised him from the nipple and went to lay him in the fleece-lined cradle. Then, lacing up her shift, she turned her attention to William. He had sat down on the cushioned bench before the banked hearth and removed his shoes and tunic. Isabelle went to pour wine for them both, cutting her own with spring water.

   "The royal
esnecca
sails on the noon tide tomorrow." He rotated the cup in his hands. "I have to be gone by dawn."

   "Then you are not going to get much sleep," she said. "It's already the darkest part of the night."

   He shrugged. "I am not tired. I'll sleep when I have the leisure. If the sea crossing is calm, then I can snatch a few hours in the deck shelter."

   Setting her drink aside, she came to stand behind him and began slowly kneading his shoulders. His muscles were so tight with tension that it was like pressing her thumbs into stone, and she was certain he must have a savage headache.

   "Am I doing the right thing?" he asked.

   She heard the need for reassurance in his voice and pitched her own to the same lazy rhythm as her movements. "Do you believe you are not?"

   He laughed sourly. "When the Archbishop of Canterbury shakes his head and my own knights and members of my family look at me as if I've turned into a dribbling lackwit for supporting John, then I wonder."

   "If you supported Arthur, you would probably have received the same looks," she murmured. "It is not an enviable choice."

   "No," he said, the one word serving to express the surfeit of burdens caused by the dilemma. Closing his eyes, he gave a soft groan. "Ah that's good."

   "You and William de Braose will make John a king," she said thoughtfully. "It was de Braose's word at Richard's deathbed that named John the heir, and it is your influence on the English barons that will bring them to accept him. He will owe you."