Prince of Darkness (41 page)

Justin looked over at the charred palisade walls. “So he ordered an assault upon the castle.”

“He led it himself, de Quincy, and a bloody one it was, with fierce fighting and many deaths. But he did in one day what we’d failed to do in nigh on a month. He took the outer bailey, set fire to the barbican guarding the second gate, and only withdrew when night fell. Today he ordered his carpenters to build mangonels, and whilst we wait for them to be done, he has provided some entertainment for our men, and for those huddling within the castle.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Justin asked in perplexity and Chester smiled grimly.

“Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

The siege engines were being constructed on the hill north of the castle, within sight of the garrison but out of range of their crossbows. And here, too, a gallows had been erected. Several bodies dangled slowly in the wind. As Justin and Chester reined in to watch, another prisoner was dragged up onto the gallows, hands tied behind his back. A noose was placed around his neck and then he was dispatched to God. Justin made the sign of the Cross over the strangling man, relieved when his legs finally stopped kicking.

“Some of John’s men,” Chester said, “taken in yesterday’s assault. The king wanted these rebels to see what awaits those who defy him.” Glancing toward approaching horsemen, he said, “Here he comes now.”

Justin did not need to be told that. Richard Lionheart wore the light armor he’d become accustomed to in the heat of the Holy Land, a chain-mail hauberk and a helmet with nose guard. He was as fair as John was dark; the hair curling out of the back of his helmet was a burnished red-gold and the eyes narrowed upon the castle walls were a blazing blue. He was astride the most spectacular stallion Justin had ever seen, the shade of polished pearl, with a gait that was poetry in motion and a streaming silver tail that trailed almost to the ground. Gilded by sunlight, man and horse looked otherworldly, as if they’d ridden right out of a minstrel’s tale of bygone glory, and as he looked upon the English king, Justin found himself thinking unexpectedly:
Poor John.

The queen had chosen to await the resolution of the siege of Nottingham at a nearby royal manor. The next morning, Justin set out for Clipstone, deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest. He’d been told it was a hunting lodge built by Eleanor’s husband, the late King Henry, and he half expected it to be a rustic, simple structure, for Henry had never been overly concerned about comfort, especially when he was pursuing his passion for the hunt. He discovered, though, that Clipstone was a residence of substance, with a large stone hall, a king’s chamber, chapel, stables, fishpond, even a deer park, and Queen Eleanor was holding court as if she were back at Westminster.

Admitted into the great hall, Justin was startled to see so many princes of the Church. At first glance, it looked as if every bishop in England had come to do honor to the English king. He recognized the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York, who was—like Morgan Bloet and Will Longsword—a bastard son of King Henry. He recognized, too, the bishops of Hereford and Worcester, and did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he did not find his father’s tall, stately figure among the others.

The queen was the center of attention, as she’d been for almost all of her seventy years on God’s earth. Her face framed by a fine linen barbette, her hair covered by a delicate, gauzy veil held in place by a gold circlet, she was elegant and regal in damask silk the color of claret, and from a distance, she appeared to be defying time as boldly as she’d defied two royal husbands and the conventions that defined and circumscribed female behavior in their world. Up close, though, she looked far more fragile, a woman who’d lost as many battles as she’d won, relying upon an indomitable will to spur on an aging body.

Surrounded by prelates, she was relating a story of her son’s experiences in the Holy Land, and, as always, Justin was startled to see John’s greenish-gold eyes in her face. “It was my son’s greatest sorrow that he was unable to recapture Jerusalem from Saladin. On one of his scouting expeditions, he rode to the top of the hill the crusaders called Montjoie, which offered a view of Jerusalem from its heights. But Richard refused to join the others, instead putting up his shield to block out the sight, saying that if he was not able to deliver the Holy City from the infidels, he was not worthy to behold it.”

That was a story sure to win approbation from an audience of churchmen, and there were murmurings of admiration and approval. Eleanor’s smile was one Justin would long remember, for he’d never seen her show such unguarded joy. He settled himself on the fringes of the crowd, content to wait until she took notice of him.

The sun was slanting toward the west as Justin walked beside the fishpond with his queen. Others were trailing after them—her ladies-in-waiting, chaplain, an earl, and several bishops—but they kept at a discreet distance, allowing Eleanor to converse in private with her agent. The fishpond was located in a southeast corner of the estate, some distance from the manor, and Justin was surprised by the queen’s stamina; she’d set a brisk pace that had yet to falter. Approaching the water’s edge, she halted, listening to the silence, breathing in the cool spring air, and then said, “Tell me more about this forged letter.”

He did, to the best of his ability. It was a long story and he worried that she’d tire, but she brushed aside his concerns, and listened intently, without interruptions. Once he was done, she gazed for a time at the mirrored surface of the pond, her eyes following the drift of the reflected clouds. “Richard’s release almost did not come to pass,” she said. “The emperor had got letters from John and Philippe, pledging to pay him even more money for every month that he’d keep Richard captive. Heinrich was sorely tempted to accept their offer, and he even dared to show Richard the letters.”

Her lip curled. “The man has no shame. Fortunately that was not true of his lords, who were horrified that he’d consider this eleventh-hour betrayal. Richard defended himself with the eloquence of outrage and when Heinrich realized that his barons were utterly on Richard’s side, he agreed to honor our pact. But for two days, my son’s fate hung in the balance, thanks to Heinrich’s greed and their treachery. John is right to be fearful.”

Justin wisely kept silent, for he admittedly did not understand the moral ambiguities that clouded the crimes of the highborn. In his judgment, John’s treachery was reason enough to cast him out into darkness. But he knew that was not true for the queen. Apparently there were sins that could be forgiven and sins that could not, and those who wielded power seemed to know instinctively which were which. He had done his duty, giving his queen an honest account of her youngest son’s troubles, and he felt he owed John no more than that.

“It would appear,” Eleanor said, with a hint of dry humor, “that you got more than you bargained for in France, Justin. I do not imagine you enjoyed pulling in harness with Durand.”

“No, Madame, not much.”

“You have acquitted yourselves well. I am very pleased with you both.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, wishing he did not have to share her praise with Durand, and as if reading his mind, she smiled at him.

“Durand is comfortable exploring the netherworld; he would have to be in order to keep pace with John. But it was harder for you, I know. I will not forget the service you have done me.” She’d resumed walking and he fell in step as she continued to skirt the edge of the pond. “I daresay you never expected to be pleading Emma’s case with me.”

Or John’s, either, he thought. “Lord John called it my ‘pilgrimage to Hell and back,’ ” he said ruefully.

“Yes, that sounds like John,” she said, and he thought he heard her sigh. “Did you hear?” she asked, after another silence. “The garrison at Nottingham has agreed to surrender. The men in command—Ralph Murdac and William de Wenneval—sent out two knights under a flag of truce to ascertain for themselves if Richard had truly returned. Once they were satisfied that was indeed so, they lost all stomach for further resistance.”

Thinking of those gallows set up north of the castle, Justin was not surprised. “So it is over, then.”

“At least on this side of the Channel. My son has summoned a great council to meet at Nottingham in a few days. Amongst the matters to be dealt with will be John’s treason. He will be given forty days to appear before the council to answer these charges. If he does not, he will be judged to have forfeited any and all rights to the English Crown, his lands already having been confiscated.”

Again, Justin kept silent and they walked on. After a time, Eleanor said, “Richard means to have a reckoning with Philippe as soon as possible. I expect that we’ll be in France ere the spring is done. But I will need you, Justin, to return sooner than that.”

“What would you have me do, Madame?”

She smiled faintly, for his matter-of-fact tone did not completely disguise his dismay. “You need not leave right away, lad. Take some time to visit with your daughter. And then I would have you go back to France, where you must do your best to convince John that his only chance of survival is to throw himself on Richard’s mercy. It will be no easy task, and not one you’d choose of your own free will.”

Eleanor paused, her eyes searching Justin’s face. “May I rely upon you, Justin, to do my bidding?”

Justin’s hesitation was barely noticeable. “I serve at the queen’s pleasure,” he said.

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I would like to begin this note with the remarkable saga of Morgan Bloet. Morgan was indeed the illegitimate son of Henry II. While it was known that Morgan’s Welsh mother, Nesta, was wed to Sir Ralph Bloet, her family lineage remained a mystery. I wasn’t willing to give up that easily, however, and began to search the Internet for clues. Eventually a Bloet family Web site pointed me in the right direction—to a biography of William Marshal written by an esteemed British historian, David Crouch. His research had identified Nesta as the daughter of Iorwerth ab Owain, Lord of Caerleon, and with that information in hand, it was easy to fill in the gaps in Nesta’s pedigree. I was also intrigued to discover that once John became king, he was very generous to the entire Bloet family, which argues quite strongly for an affectionate bond between John and his half brother Morgan. I enjoyed “working” with Morgan, and am sure he’ll be popping up in other story lines.

But the most interesting episode in Morgan’s life occurred nineteen years after the events in
Prince of Darkness,
and since I don’t think that I’ll ever get to dramatize it, I want to share it with my readers here. Morgan subsequently took holy vows, and rose rapidly in the Church, doubtless due to John’s favor. By 1213, he was Bishop-elect of the See of Durham. In that year he traveled to Rome to receive papal confirmation of his election, only to be told that his illegitimacy barred him from serving in such a high Church position. As Morgan’s half brother Geoffrey had been recognized as Bishop of Lincoln and then as Archbishop of York, Morgan probably assumed that, like Geoffrey, he’d be able to obtain a papal dispensation waiving the issue of his bastardy. But he was facing a different Pope, Innocent III, who was less inclined than his predecessors to do a friendly favor for an English king, especially one who was currently embroiled in a bitter power struggle with the papacy.

Pope Innocent III was apparently touched by Morgan’s plight, however, and offered to confirm him as Bishop of Durham if he would swear an oath that he was the son of Ralph Bloet and Nesta rather than the son of Henry II and Nesta. Faced with the choice between gaining a bishopric and repudiating his paternity, Morgan declared that he could not deny his father, the king.

I was quite interested to learn that Welsh and Breton were still so similar in the twelfth century that a Welsh speaker would be able to understand Breton speech and vice versa. This definitely worked to Justin’s benefit. People sometimes forget that so many different languages flourished in medieval times, often in the same country. A contemporary of King Henry II said that he was conversant with all the languages “from the coast of France to the River Jordan.” He appears to have had some understanding of English, although there is no evidence that he ever spoke it, and neither of his sons—Richard and John—had any knowledge of the native tongue of their island realm. They were Kings of England who never thought of themselves as English. They are often called the Angevins because Henry’s father was the Count of Anjou. They are more familiarly known as the Plantagenets, the surname of the dynasty that ruled England from 1154 to 1485. I employed this surname in
Prince of Darkness
as a convenience, although Henry and his sons never made use of it themselves.

Readers with photographic memory may notice that Eleanor has grown younger, shedding two years since my earlier mysteries. This is a fascinating example of the way history is an ongoing process; we are always learning new facts or discovering that long-established facts are erroneous. Historians have always accepted Eleanor’s birth date as occurring in the year 1122, and I followed their lead in my earlier novels,
When Christ and His Saints Slept
and
Time and Chance.
But in 2002, a wonderful book called
Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady
was published, and Andrew Lewis, one of the contributors to this valuable study, makes a most convincing argument that Eleanor was actually born in 1124. Eight hundred years after her death, Eleanor is still surprising us!

Simon de Lusignan and Arzhela de Dinan are products of my imagination, engrafted upon actual family trees. I implanted Simon onto a cadet branch of the notorious de Lusignan clan who settled at Lezay. In Arzhela’s case, I took the liberty of marrying her to an actual Breton lord, Roland de Dinan. As Roland had died without heirs of his body, he seemed an ideal candidate for matrimony with the much younger Lady Arzhela, and I like to think he would not be displeased to be given such a lively fictional wife.