Lionheart (12 page)

Shifting in his seat, Geoff glowered at the other inhabitants of Nonancourt’s solar, thinking he’d rather have been trapped in a badger den than here with this unholy trinity. Guillaume Longchamp had once been Geoff’s own clerk, but with a fine eye for the main chance, he was soon serving Richard, and he’d benefited lavishly once Richard became king. Now he and the Bishop of Durham were joint justiciars, set to rule England during Richard’s prolonged absence in Outremer, and Geoff thought only the Almighty’s Divine Mercy could save his homeland from utter ruination. With that prideful pair at the helm, they’d run the ship of state onto the rocks in no time at all.

Geoff did not trust Longchamp, but he had a greater grudge against Hugh de Puiset, the Bishop of Durham, for the latter had sabotaged his attempts to regain royal favor. After they’d clashed over the appointment of Hugh de Puiset’s nephew as treasurer of York, Richard had seized Geoff’s castles and Episcopal estates, and Geoff had to promise to pay two thousand pounds to get them back. But the Bishop of Durham would not relinquish custody of these manors, refusing to allow Geoff to collect their revenues, thus making it impossible for him to pay that large fine. Richard had then confiscated his estates again and increased the fine, brushing aside Geoff’s attempts to lay the blame at Hugh de Puiset’s door.

So Geoff would have freely conceded that he disliked Longchamp and loathed the Bishop of Durham. But even de Puiset’s treachery paled in comparison with the sins of Geoff’s half-brother John, the Count of Mortain, who’d betrayed his dying father, breaking Henry’s spirits and his heart in the last days of his life. Geoff’s gaze moved coldly now past the diminutive chancellor and the tall, elegant bishop, shooting daggers at the young man standing by the window.

John sensed Geoff’s eyes boring into his back, and his jaw muscles tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching as he sought to control his fury. He’d had enough of Geoff’s self-righteous censure, was bone-weary of being treated as if he bore the Mark of Cain. He’d done no more than countless other men had done, swimming away from a sinking ship. He’d never fought against his father as Hal, Geoffrey, and Richard had done. He was not the one who’d dragged Henry from his sickbed to make a humiliating surrender at Colombières; Richard and Philippe bore the blame for that. He’d been loyal to his sire almost to the last, which was more than his brothers could say. Yes, Geoff had been loyal, too, but what other choice had he? He was a king’s bastard, utterly dependent upon the man who’d sired him whilst rutting with a whore.

John could feel the heat rising in his face. It was so unfair. Yes, he’d made a secret peace with Richard and the French king, but he had not wanted it to be that way. He’d not forsaken his father until the waves were beginning to break over the deck. He was sure Henry would not have wanted them both to drown.

And in the weeks after his father’s death, it seemed as if he’d been vindicated, for he had been welcomed by Richard, shown a generosity that he’d not truly expected, for his brothers had usually treated him either with indifference or annoyance. Eleven, nine, and eight years younger than Hal, Richard, and Geoffrey, fifteen years younger than Geoff, he’d always felt like the foundling, the afterthought, John Lackland. He was finally given his just due, though, once Richard became king. He was wed at long last to a great heiress, Avisa of Gloucester, a marriage that his father had promised but never delivered. He was given vast estates in six English shires, lands with income worth four thousand pounds a year. He was someone of importance, no longer the insignificant little brother. He was the heir to the English throne.

But that triumphant flush had soon faded. Geoff was not the only one who scorned him for doing what any sensible man would have done. Most were not as outspoken as Geoff, but he could see it in their eyes—their silent disdain. Will Marshal, that Welsh whelp Morgan, Baldwin de Bethune, all those who’d stayed with his father till the last, daring to judge him. He would not defend himself, for he was a prince of the blood royal, mayhap one day a king, and kings were accountable only to the Almighty. But he could not brush aside their implied condemnation as he knew Richard would have done. Their disapproval shadowed his days and bad dreams disrupted his nights, for Henry came to him in those lonely hours before dawn, a mute, reproachful ghost haunting his sleep. John would wager the surety of his soul that Richard was never stalked by that unrelenting spirit, never troubled by vain regrets. Everything was always so easy for Richard.

No longer able to abide Geoff’s unspoken accusations, John swung around, staring defiantly at the older man. “If you have something to say, Geoff, say it then,” he challenged, a gauntlet the reluctant archbishop was quick to pick up.

“Right gladly,” he growled, rising to his formidable height, angry color staining his cheeks.

“It will serve for naught to squabble amongst ourselves,” the Bishop of Durham interceded smoothly. “My lord archbishop, my lord count. I realize that nerves are on the raw, that we have had disputes in the past that are not easy to put aside. But we owe it to the king to do so, for he will depend upon us to cooperate with one another, to govern in a spirit of harmony whilst he is overseas, fighting the godless infidels who’ve captured the holiest city in Christendom.”

As unlike as they were, a remarkably similar expression crossed the faces of the estranged brothers, the look of men marveling at such blatant, shameless sanctimony. Guillaume Longchamp stifled a smile, preferring to maintain the dignified bearing of one who was above the fray. He thought the Archbishop of York was a dangerous hothead and the Count of Mortain an even more dangerous adversary, for John had few if any scruples and a newly awakened appetite for power. But he reserved his greatest contempt for Hugh de Puiset. The Bishop of Durham was the epitome of all that Longchamp most despised—an arrogant, smug hypocrite, who’d traded upon his high birth, good looks, and glib tongue to advance himself in the Church and at the royal court.

Longchamp was Hugh’s opposite in all particulars, for he’d risen by merit alone, overcoming his modest family background, his small stature, and unprepossessing appearance, no easy task in a world in which people saw physical deformity as an outer manifestation of inner evil. He’d realized early in life that he was much more intelligent than most, and took pride in his intellectual abilities, burning to prove himself to all who’d dismissed him as a “lowborn cripple” or an “ugly dwarf.” Once he’d entered the Duke of Aquitaine’s service and rose rapidly in Richard’s favor, he was no longer treated with ridicule. His detractors became enemies, and he gloried in their hostility. The ambition he’d always kept hidden now came to the fore, and he dared to dream of what had once been unthinkable—a bishopric. And indeed, when Richard became king, he rewarded Longchamp with the bishopric of Ely and the chancellorship. In turn, Longchamp rewarded Richard with the sort of loyalty that was beyond value, almost spiritual in its selfless intensity, rooted as much in Richard’s acceptance of his physical flaws as in the tangible benefits of royal favor.

Longchamp’s ambitions were no longer earthbound, soared higher and higher with each elevation: chancellor, bishop, and then justiciar. He’d even begun to think of the pinnacle of Church power. The Archbishop of Canterbury was going to the Holy Land, too, and he was not a young man. A vacancy might well occur in the next year or two, and what would be more natural than that the king should look to the one man he knew he could trust.

But what Longchamp’s enemies did not understand was that he was also a man of piety. He was not a worldly prince of the Church like the Bishop of Durham, who lived as lavishly as any king, claimed an earldom, and flaunted a mistress by whom he’d had at least four children. Longchamp was offended by such a blatant disregard for a priest’s holy vows, and he meant to punish Hugh de Puiset for his carnal sins as well as for his political machinations and unabashed greed. Looking now at the bishop, so graceful and urbane and haughty, Longchamp smiled to himself, sure that a day of reckoning was coming.

They all jumped to their feet then as the door opened and the king and his mother swept into the chamber; Richard could no more make an unobtrusive entrance than he could have understood his brother John’s crippling insecurities. “I trust you’ve been able to entertain yourselves whilst I was delayed,” he said blandly, giving himself away by the amused glint in his eyes.

After they’d all greeted Eleanor, Richard wasted no time getting to the heart of the meeting. “Tomorrow I will be announcing to the great council that I have decided to change my original arrangements for governing the realm whilst I am away. Instead of acting as co-justiciars, you, my lord,” he said to the Bishop of Durham, “will be justiciar north of the River Humber, and my chancellor will act as justiciar for the rest of England.”

Hugh de Puiset drew a sharp breath, then swung around to glare accusingly at Longchamp. The chancellor had not yet mastered the art of inscrutability, and one glance told Hugh that his suspicions were right; Longchamp had known this was coming. It was an easy step from that to the next—that he had planted this noxious seed and then watered it till it took root in Richard’s mind. “My lord king, surely you do not doubt my loyalty? I’ve had far more experience than the Bishop of Ely, know the barons of the kingdom as he does not—”

“The decision has been made, my lord bishop,” Richard interrupted. “I am not disrespecting you, merely doing what is best for England.” Hugh would have continued his protest, but Richard was already turning his attention upon his brother Geoff.

“I do not have the money to pay that fine,” Geoff said morosely before Richard could speak.

“That can be discussed later. What I’ve come to tell you now is that I will require you to swear a solemn oath that you will not set foot in England for the next three years.” Geoff’s mouth dropped open, and then his eyes flashed. Richard gave him no chance to object, though. “I will be requiring the same oath from you, Johnny,” he told John, whose response was more guarded than Geoff’s. He stiffened, but said nothing, slanting his gaze from Richard to Eleanor, back to Richard again.

Richard let the silence stretch out, smothering any embers of rebellion, and then got to his feet. “I shall see you at the great council tomorrow,” he said, and after beckoning to his chancellor, he kissed his mother on the cheek and sauntered out, Longchamp hurrying to catch up. Geoff was the next to go, fuming helplessly. The Bishop of Durham would have lingered to argue his case with Eleanor, but she was not receptive and he soon departed, too, followed by John.

Welcoming this rare chance to be alone, Eleanor sat down in the window-seat. She approved of Richard’s move to circumscribe the Bishop of Durham’s authority, for he’d never impressed her, a courtier cloaked in the garb of a cleric. But there were risks, too, in the road Richard had chosen. Longchamp was now chancellor and chief justiciar, in possession of the king’s great seal and the Tower of London. If Richard’s request to make him a papal legate was granted by the Holy Father, he’d have a formidable arsenal of weapons, both religious and secular. Was it wise to give any one man that much power?

A soft knock interrupted her musings. “Enter,” she said with a sigh; she should have known her solitude would be fleeting. To her surprise, it was John. “May I speak with you, Madame?” he asked formally. “It is a matter of importance.”

“Come in, John.” When she gestured toward the window-seat, he declined with a quick shake of his head, keeping some distance between them by leaning against the table. Of all her children, he alone had inherited her coloring, dark hair and hazel eyes. He did not speak immediately and she regarded him pensively. How could she feel so detached from a child of her womb, her flesh-and-blood?

She supposed it was not truly so surprising, though, for he’d been six when she’d been captured and turned over to her wrathful husband. She had not been denied access to her daughter Joanna and eventually Henry had relented, allowing her older sons to visit her, too. But she’d not seen John again until he was twelve and then rarely, even after Henry had dramatically eased the terms of her confinement. He’d been Henry’s, never hers. As she gazed into the greenish-gold eyes so like her own, a memory flickered of an afternoon soon after Hal’s death. She’d confessed to Geoffrey that she did not really know John, and Geoffrey had proven once again that he was the family seer, predicting that Henry did not really know John, either.

“Mother . . . I fear that Richard may be making a mistake in investing so much royal authority in his chancellor.”

“Oh? Do you have reason to doubt Longchamp’s loyalty?”

“No, I do not. But loyalty is not the only consideration. There are men who function quite well as second in command, yet do not thrive when given absolute authority, and it can be argued that Longchamp will be acting as a
de facto
king with Richard away in the Holy Land for who knows how long. Especially if he is named a papal legate, as the rumors go.”

Eleanor was surprised that he knew about the papal legateship, for that was not common knowledge. But she was intrigued that John was showing such interest in political matters. He was twenty-three now. At that age, their eldest son had cared only for tournaments. Her face shadowed, for memories of Hal were always painful, their beautiful golden boy who’d had more charm than the law ought to allow and barely a brain in his head.

“I do not think Longchamp will be able to meet Richard’s expectations,” John said, choosing his words with care. “Our English barons are likely to balk at taking commands from a man of obscure birth. Yes, I know,” he said when Eleanor started to speak. “He is not the grandson of a peasant, as the Bishop of Coventry claims. But neither is he highborn, not like the men he must rule over. Mayhap if he were more tactful . . . but his arrogance beggars belief. He makes enemies easily.”

“So what are you asking of me, John? You want me to convince Richard not to leave the government in Longchamp’s hands? He’d not heed me.”