A King's Ransom (42 page)

“Had it not been his destiny to rule, your son would have made a superb lawyer,” Hubert said with a smile, “for he addressed each and every charge against him and rendered them invalid, exposing them for the falsehoods they were. You’d have been very proud of him, Madame, for it was truly one of his finest hours.”

“He must have put on a spectacular defense, indeed, if he forced Heinrich to back down,” Eleanor said, with a smile of her own. “You and Dean William have brought me a precious gift this day, my lord bishop—hope.” She devoted herself to the capon on her trencher then, but her mind was ranging far afield, weighing all that the bishop and the dean had shared with her in the course of the afternoon.

William Briwerre, the only one of the justiciars then in the city, began to tell Hubert Walter and William de St Mère-Eglise that John’s rebellion had not gone as he’d hoped. His invasion with hired Flemish ships had not materialized, for Eleanor had called out the levies in the southeast. “The Count of Mortain then landed on his own, hired Welsh routiers to garrison the castles he’d seized last year, and dared to come to London, where he demanded that the justiciars swear fealty to him, claiming King Richard was dead. Of course, we refused, and he retreated to Windsor Castle, which is now under siege by William Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen, whilst the Bishop of Durham is besieging his castle at Tickhill.”

Eleanor was only half listening to Briwerre. The capon was perfectly seasoned, the pastry shell moist and flaky, but she was not fully aware of what she ate. Setting her knife down, she said pensively, “Heinrich is not a man to surrender his prey so easily and Richard’s triumph does not change the fact that he remains in the emperor’s power. I do not believe Heinrich will be satisfied with military aid for his Sicily campaign, no matter what he is saying now. I think we must assume that a goodly ransom will still be demanded ere he frees my son.”

Glancing around the high table, she saw that the bishop and dean and William Briwerre were all nodding in agreement. “This means,” she said, “that we need to make a truce with John.”

William Briwerre turned so abruptly in his seat that some of his wine splattered onto the tablecloth. “But, Madame, we’re on the verge of taking Windsor!”

“We cannot continue to expend large sums on besieging Windsor and Tickhill if we need to raise money for a ransom. And if the amount demanded is so large that we must impose a tax upon the people, how can we do that if the realm is in turmoil? No funds can be collected unless the kingdom is at peace—even if it is only a temporary peace.”

Briwerre looked at her in dismay, for he was convinced that with enough time, they could capture both Windsor and Tickhill, and he wondered if a mother’s protective instincts had impaired the queen’s judgment; John was her son, too, after all. He would never dare to make such a suggestion, though, and he glanced toward the clerics, hoping that the bishop was willing to say what he could not. He was to be disappointed.

“I think you are right, Madame,” Hubert said. “We need to give priority to securing King Richard’s freedom, and if that means we must make deals we find distasteful, so be it.”

Eleanor was relieved by Hubert’s response, for she knew not all of the justiciars and council would agree with her, and it would help greatly to have the Bishop of Salisbury—soon to be the Archbishop of Canterbury—on her side. “What was Richard’s reaction when you and the abbots told him of John’s plotting with the French king?”

Hubert grinned. “He said, ‘My brother John is not the man to conquer a kingdom if there is anyone to offer the least resistance.’”

A ripple of laughter swept the high table. Eleanor’s eyes held an amused green glitter. “I think his response should be widely circulated,” she said, with a cool smile that reassured William Briwerre somewhat; he still did not agree with her, but he no longer worried that maternal sentiment might lead her astray.

After servers brought in the last course, honey-drizzled wafers and sugared comfits, Eleanor gave her guests time to enjoy them before breaking the bad news. “I wish I could tell you that the French king has been no more successful than John. Alas, I cannot. Philippe has advanced deep into Normandy, accompanied by the Count of Flanders. He has gained control of the Vexin and he now holds Gisors and Neaufles.”

Both clerics exclaimed at that, wanting to know how Philippe could have taken Gisors, one of the strongest of Richard’s Norman castles. Eleanor’s answer was a chilling one, for it raised the dangerous specter of treachery. “I am sorry to say,” she said grimly, “that the castellan of Gisors, Gilbert de Vacoeil, betrayed the trust my son had placed in him, and surrendered Gisors and Neaufles to Philippe without offering any resistance whatsoever.”

Hubert was a soldier as well as a churchman, and uttered a blistering profanity that would have done Richard proud. Unlike Richard, he at once apologized for such intemperate language. “What could be more dishonorable than abandoning his liege lord whilst knowing the king is a prisoner in Germany? There is surely a special circle of Hell reserved for such a foul self-server.”

“And the loss of Gisors has disheartened men who might otherwise have shown more backbone. Several other lords then agreed to give Philippe’s army passage across their lands, including three who fought with my son in the Holy Land.” Eleanor’s mouth set in a hard line. “And one of them was Jaufre, the Count of Perche, husband to my granddaughter Richenza.”

Hubert and William de St Mère-Eglise exchanged glances. As troubling as this news was, it was not utterly unexpected, for these lords were vassals of both the Duke of Normandy and the King of France. Forced to choose between irreconcilable loyalties, they were likely to do whatever was necessary to safeguard their ancestral estates. Their actions would not be as harshly judged as the treachery of the castellan of Gisors, who’d not been protecting his own lands when he’d yielded the castles he’d been entrusted with by his king. Still, though, these were men of influence, and their defection might well inspire others to follow their example.

“This will greatly grieve the king when he hears of it,” Hubert said somberly. “I know he thinks highly of Jaufre of Perche.”

Eleanor did not want to imagine what it would be like for her son, a captive in a foreign land, learning that men he’d trusted had betrayed him. “I received a distraught letter from my granddaughter,” she said quietly. “She was heartsick, but she said her husband had no choice, for Philippe is his king. Whilst there is truth in what she said, that will not make it any easier for my son to accept.”

A pall had settled over the hall, threatening to smother their celebration of the good news brought by the bishop and dean. Eleanor was not willing to surrender hope so quickly, though. “We must remember that whatever my son loses in Normandy, he will regain upon his return. And he will be proud of the loyalty displayed by his English subjects, as well as the steadfastness of his ally, the Scots king. John attempted to lure King William into a war against Richard, doubtless remembering how eagerly he’d joined in the rebellion against my late husband twenty years ago. In the past, the Scots have never failed to take advantage of English turmoil and unrest. Not this time, though. Not only did the Scots king reject John’s overtures, he sent us word that if Richard must pay a ransom to regain his freedom, the Scots will be willing to contribute to that ransom.”

Eleanor accomplished what she’d hoped to do, for the mood lightened considerably after that. As a troubadour came forward to entertain, she was assuring the bishop that she and William de St Mère-Eglise would act quickly to inform the Christchurch monks of Richard’s wishes for the archbishopric. Remembering Richard’s wry comment about his father’s command to the monks of Winchester, ordering them to hold a free election to elect only the candidate of his choice, Hubert related this story and Eleanor laughed heartily, saying she remembered that well. Hubert thought it was a sign of healing that she could find amusement and pleasure in memories of the man who’d held her prisoner for sixteen years.

It was William Briwerre who first saw the newcomer being escorted into the hall by the queen’s steward. His travel-stained clothing indicated he was a courier and the fact that he’d not bothered to clean up before seeking Eleanor was significant in itself. As he drew nearer, Briwerre recognized him as one of the queen’s men—utterly devoted to her, elusive, and at home in the shadows. “Madame,” Briwerre said, but she’d already taken notice of her agent’s approach.

“My lady,” he said, kneeling. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal, but I have news you need to hear.”

Eleanor regarded him calmly, while her hands clenched in her lap under the table. She’d dispatched him with a message for the seneschal of Normandy. But he ought not to have been back so soon. Nor did she see any sign of a letter. She hesitated, wondering if she should hear his news in private, then decided against it. Whatever was happening in Normandy, they all needed to know. Gesturing for him to rise, she said, “Tell me what you’ve learned, Justin. Did you meet with the seneschal?”

“No, Madame, I could not.” He moved closer to the dais, his eyes never leaving her face. “I was unable to enter Rouen, for it is under siege by the French king and the Count of Flanders.”

A shocked silence followed. No one spoke, for there was no need to say what was in all their minds—that if Rouen, the capital city of Normandy, fell to the French king, it could be a death blow to Richard’s control of his duchy.

T
HE
F
RENCH KING WAS
in high spirits, which he evinced by smiling from time to time. Philippe Capet’s enemies claimed he had no sense of humor at all. This was not true, but it was somewhat feeble from lack of exercise. Philippe’s view of the world was a sober one, which he attributed to his early accession to the French throne, at age fifteen. It had affected his education, too, for he had never mastered Latin and felt sensitive about that lack, all the more so because his nemesis, the English king, spoke it fluently. He had no false vanity and he knew he would always be eclipsed by Richard on the battlefield. He was quite competent when it came to siege warfare, though, for it played to his strengths, requiring a strategic sense and patience. And on this mild April afternoon before the walls of Rouen, he was already anticipating victory.

So far the month had been a blessed one for the twenty-seven-year-old French monarch. He saw Gisors Castle as a golden key, one that would open all of Normandy to him. Two days ago, the Bishop of Beauvais had returned from Germany, and when Philippe heard that the English king had been cast into a Trifels dungeon, he’d seen his enemy’s suffering as divine retribution. Now, with a second chance to outbid the Lionheart’s elderly mother, he was convinced that John would soon be on the English throne. And on the day that happened, he knew the accursed Angevin empire would be doomed.

His command tent was crowded, even though it was large enough to hold more than a hundred men. Trestle tables had been set up for a midday meal, draped with white linen and set with silver flagons and wine cups, and the dishes served were hot, savory, and worthy of a king. The wine in particular was of high quality, for Philippe enjoyed wine and hoped the time would come when he could lay claim to the famed vineyards of Aquitaine. Raising his cup, he said loudly, “Let us drink to Rouen’s fall!”

The toast was enthusiastically echoed by the others in the tent, most of them of high birth, men eager for the booty such a campaign promised. Baldwin, the Count of Flanders and father of the French king’s deceased queen, who’d died tragically in childbirth, was seated in the place of honor on Philippe’s right, and the king’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais, was sitting on his left. After the first course had been served, the bishop entertained his fellow diners by describing the sorry state of the English king, claiming Richard had begged him to intercede with the Holy Roman Emperor. Those who knew the Lionheart personally thought that rather unlikely, but Beauvais’s account found favor with most of them, and there was much laughter when the bishop related the shameful circumstances of the English king’s capture, saying he’d been found in a wretched inn little better than a bawdy house, where he’d sought to evade detection by pretending to be a kitchen scullion.

Not everyone found the bishop’s stories amusing. Jaufre, the Count of Perche, never looked up from his plate, trying to ignore the curious stares cast his way, for all knew that he was wed to the English king’s niece and his loyalties were therefore suspect. Staring down at the mutton stew, he found himself remembering his wife’s tearful farewell. He’d done his best to make Richenza understand that he had no choice, that he had to obey Philippe’s summons, reminding her that Philippe was his cousin and his king, reminding her, too, that he’d come back from the Holy Land deeply in debt and the Count of Mortain had promised to grant him Moulins and Bonsmoulins once he gained the English crown. Richenza had not been convinced, but Jaufre understood that women were emotional creatures and he knew she loved her uncle, having grown to womanhood at the English court. So he’d sought to be patient with her foolishness, especially now that she thought she might be breeding again; she’d already given him a son, born during his time in the Holy Land. He truly believed that he’d made the only decision he could. So why did it feel so wrong here in the French king’s command tent?