“Christ’s bones, you’ve heard nothing from Germany. Face up to the fact. Richard is dead!” Prince John snarled at the justiciars who had convened in Westminster’s Great Hall to hear what he had to say. They were still in a state of agitation over the fact that he had managed to sneak around behind them, recruit mercenaries, and bolster not only Wallingford and Windsor, but Tickhill, Nottingham, and Marlborough.
“Sire, whose word do we have—save your own, which is scarcely unbiased—that King Richard is dead?” asked Walter de Coutances, his voice one of frozen courtesy. “We need more proof than hearsay.”
“God’s blood, it’s no more than hearsay that he’s alive!” John snapped. “When are you all going to wake up? I demand that you hand over the realm to me and order all men to swear allegiance.”
“You are the dreamer, John,” said Eleanor, who had so far listened in silence to her youngest son’s diatribe. Her expression was one of weary contempt. “Your brother lives. We have proof and more will come. You are commanded to disband your troops on both sides of the Narrow Sea and help us seek a way to free Richard from prison.”
“Why, when I have an inheritance to win from those who will not accept the truth?” John glared at them all. “If you will not give me what is mine by right, then by God, I will take it by fire and sword.”
Eleanor raised one eyebrow. “You haven’t had much success this far,” she said scornfully. “Three days ago my Kentish fyrd caught two shiploads of your Flemish mercenaries trying to land. I understand that a handful of survivors are in fetters. The remainder are fish food. The country holds for Richard, and so do the barons.”
“Not all of them,” John’s eyes glittered dangerously. He flicked a glance towards William, who returned it impassively.
“The men who matter,” his mother retorted.
John stared at his mother and the justiciars, at the hovering clerks and squires and attendants, their expressions studiously blank. “Is that your last word?”
“Of course not,” Eleanor said, her voice still level and calm. “I am willing to talk for as long as you wish…my son.”
John had gone beyond flushed and was now as pale as a winding sheet. “I am done with talking, Mother. From now on, I’ll let my sword speak for me. Richard is dead; let him rot in hell.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Pale and shaking, Eleanor finally relaxed and sat down on a cushioned bench. “Do you believe I am deluded?” she asked the men seated around the trestle.
“No, madam, and I do not believe that your son believes it either,” William said. “But perhaps he hopes that others do. If a lie is spoken often enough and with sufficient conviction, it can appear more convincing than the truth—as I have had cause to know.” Rising to his feet, he brought her a cup of hot wine from the jug that had been warming by the hearth and knelt like a squire to present it. She accepted it with a wan half-smile.
“We must make the truth shout louder,” William said. “And if talking is over and done, and it must be with swords, then so be it.”
Eleanor looked at him. “Your brother holds Marlborough. Will he yield it to us if you were to speak with him?”
William rubbed his neck. “I can try,” he said doubtfully.
“Do so,” she said. The wine and a moment to compose herself had done their work and her voice was firm again, even if her hand still trembled on the cup. “If we are to lay siege to Windsor, we will need men and supplies. William, you are well placed in the Marches to recruit them. My son may have stripped Glamorgan, but you have access to Gwent and the Striguil lands.”
“Madam.” William inclined his head.
The justiciars set about discussing the tactics and logistics of a campaign against the Prince and William made a mental note to send one of the squires to the shieldmaker to find out if his new one was ready yet. He was going to need it.
Forty-one
Caversham, Berkshire, April 1193
“Sit down before you fall down,” Isabelle commanded her husband who had newly returned from the siege at Windsor. He was swaying with weariness and the cloak he had tossed towards the coffer had missed its destination by several feet. Jean picked it up and completed the action. Isabelle pressed William on to the bench beside the bathtub. She ran her eyes over him but could see no sign of wounds. He was thin though, and she didn’t like the grey shadows beneath his eyes. “You have been pushing yourself too hard,” she scolded. He had sent a herald ahead to warn her of his arrival so at least she had had attendants prepare a hot tub in their chamber and hastily assemble a meal of barley and onion pottage with cold capon and bread. Outside, night had overtaken a thick lavender dusk; their sons were asleep in their cot, watched over by a nurse.
He leaned his head back against the wall, his hair flat and greasy from his helmet liner. She noticed a narrow healing scab that ran from outer cheekbone to eye corner. “Quite likely,” he replied, “but there was need.” He rubbed his palms over his face in a rasp of beard stubble, then gave her a red-eyed look. “Just knowing that Gaversham was within reach kept me putting one foot in front of another. Prince John has been persuaded to yield Windsor to his mother—on the condition that it be returned to him if Richard remains in prison. There’s a truce until All Saints’ Day and the Prince’s mercenaries have been dispersed—thank Christ.”
She brought him wine and watched him drink as if his throat were on fire. “We heard there had been fighting over Kingston way,” she said as she knelt to remove his spurs and boots. He was pungent, to say the least, but she didn’t care. He was home and whole, and it was all that mattered. She had been entertaining nightmares ever since he had ridden to join the other justiciars besieging Prince John at Windsor, especially after they heard about the savage acts of looting and rape around nearby Kingston. She knew the power of the Welsh longbow, and that his link mail was no protection against its arrows.
“There was,” he said grimly. “I performed acts ofchevauchéein the Young King’s entourage when he was in rebellion against his father. I know all about looters and how to deal with them.” He studied the grazed knuckles of his right fist, then opened his hand and Isabelle saw him gazing at the line of hard skin his sword grip had caused. “The ones we came upon have their piece of England now—their graves. The rest, if they have stopped running, will not venture from their own hearths for a long time. I lost a serjeant, six footsoldiers, and a palfrey. I gained thirty longbows from their camp, sundry weapons, and the things they had looted from the people of Kingston.” A muscle worked in his jaw and she knew that he was not going to tell her what kind of things.
She unwound his leggings and he rose to let her help him out of the rest of his clothes. She gasped at an ugly burn on his wrist and hastened her maids to fetch salve for it. “A tipped-over cooking pot,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve taken no wounds in battle.”
“No? Yet I can see what it has cost you—”
He waved his hand in dismissal. “Mostly sleep,” he said. “There have not been enough hours in the day to accomplish all that needs to be done.”
Naked now save for his braies, he crossed the room and parted the curtain to gaze upon his sleeping sons, one at either end of the cradle, small faces flushed with slumber. Will’s hair was blond-brown, Richard’s held a gleam of red like an echo of his de Clare grandsire. “All children should be able to sleep thus,” he said to Isabelle. “In safety—untroubled.” He shook his head. “I remember seeing Prince John sleeping just like this in Poitiers once, but somewhere he was ruined beyond redemption…I won’t let it happen to my sons. None of it.” He put his hands over his face. Isabelle wondered for a moment if he was weeping, but when he lowered his palms she saw that his eyes were dry and that the expression on his face was a glazed one of punch-drunk exhaustion.
“No, none of it,” she said and gently led him to the tub. She stripped his braies and made him get in the water. She brought him the bread, capon, and more wine and, dismissing her maids and the squires, set about washing him herself. He stank of the camp, so she knew he’d been among his men and in the field. A marinated aroma of smoke and sweat clung to his skin.
