William frowned. Henry’s plea for aid had arrived with a bribe. Only let William come to his aid, bringing as many knights as he could muster, and Henry would give him the fortress of Châteauroux to hold by right of marriage to its young heiress, Denise, lady of Berry. He shrugged. “In the end she may have nothing of me at all.” Stretching, he rose from the chessboard, abandoning all pretence at playing the game.
Heloise toyed with her braid, winding it around her forefinger. “I do not understand,” she said in a puzzled voice.
“Châteauroux is in the hands of the French King. Henry has promised me something for which I will have to fight tooth and claw to regain. He is never generous unless forced to be.”
“Can you do it?”
“It remains to be seen how hard the King of France wants to hold on to it and how deep the distrust between Prince Richard and his father has etched.” He rumpled his hands through his hair and sighed. “God forbid that I should ever raise sons the like of Henry’s.”
Heloise eyed him curiously. He was usually smilingly reticent about the royal masters who played their tunes from a distance and expected lesser mortals to dance to them. “You dislike them?”
“No,” William said, “but I am glad that they are not mine. They will tear their father and each other to pieces in their seeking after power. If Richard has to trample over his father’s body to take what he sees as his due, then he will do so, and John will follow the direction of best advantage to himself. My young lord was the same. He wanted power to wield, and in the end his wanting and his discontent were the end of him—God rest his soul.” He crossed himself.
“And yet you still desire Châteauroux for yourself?”
“I am not certain that I do,” he said thoughtfully, “but I am hoping that the King is open to negotiation.”
Heloise eyed him. “Then what do you want?”
“My bed for the moment,” he said with a finality in his tone that told her the questions had gone far enough.
“What about our game?” She indicated the chessboard.
“I concede,” he said. “There’s no shame in yielding to beauty.”
Heloise gave a small, forlorn smile. The shield of the courtier was firmly back in place and there would be no more getting round it tonight—or perhaps ever again. For a moment she hesitated, and then she ran to him, threw her arms around his waist, pressed her head to his chest, and hugged him fiercely. “Don’t forget me,” she said.
“As if I could.” His tone was wry, but his arms came around her and he returned her hug full measure.
Twenty-eight
Châtillon, French Border, October 1188
William and Baldwin de Béthune had billeted themselves in a wine merchant’s house in Châtillon. Arriving back from the counsel chamber, William left his squires to tend the horses and slumped on a bench in the main room, feeling drained to the marrow. At times like this, a quiet life in England’s North Country began to look very attractive. A summer of optimism was rapidly turning into a difficult autumn. Henry and Philip of France had been meeting and negotiating in sporadic fashion since July, but each time the outcome was the same. No agreement, escalating skirmishes, then a truce and another meeting more barren than the last. At first, Henry had had the upper hand, but matters had begun to curdle faster than three-day-old milk on a hot morning.
“At least the wine’s good,” Baldwin muttered as he handed a cup to William and sat down beside him. “You won’t find grape-treaders’ toe-parings in the lees.” The habit of making light remarks was ingrained and meant nothing for his mood was grim. “If I find out who started the rumour that Henry intends to pass over Richard and leave his crown to John, I’ll have his guts for girth straps.”
“You’d have to go to the French side to do that,” William said. “Philip will do his utmost to drive a wedge between Henry and Richard—and it won’t be hard, given their characters.” William accepted a cup from the squire. The scene between father and son had been ugly. They both had wills of iron and each thought himself the better ruler, one by dint of grit and long experience, the other bursting with ambition and fierce military talent. Younger than the King, older than Richard, William could see both sides of the frequent arguments between them, but tried to avoid becoming embroiled.
“Do you think he really would give England to John over Richard’s head?”
“I think that he would like to and I know that John eggs him on in all kinds of subtle ways to slight Richard…but if it comes to the sticking point, he won’t do it, not after the way he fought for his own right to rule when he was a young man.” William took several swallows of wine. “The situation is still dangerous. Richard doesn’t have the patience for such games—as we’ve just seen.” He grimaced at the memory of Richard storming out of the counsel with his father, saying that he would be damned in hell before he saw John take the throne. John had said nothing; he hadn’t needed to: his smirk had spoken volumes.
“Supposing Henry does disinherit Richard in favour of John?” Baldwin said sombrely. “What sort of king will John make? He was a disaster when his father sent him to Ireland.”
William shook his head. “He was too young to tackle Ireland, and his father should never have given him the responsibility. The King was ready for command at sixteen years old—we’ve heard the tales until they’ve worn grooves in our ears, but men don’t mature at the same rate—especially not the sons of great men. Our young lord was eight and twenty, but still a feckless lad when we buried him…God rest his soul.” William crossed himself, so did Baldwin. “John has the ability and the wits,” William added after a pause. “He’s as sharp as a needle, but too often he uses that sharpness to stab and wound, instead of sewing a good seam. He’s jealous and covetous too, especially of Richard.”
“If my brother were Richard, I would be jealous,” Baldwin replied. “He’s got the looks, the prowess, and a knack of making men want to follow him to the ends of the earth. John will never command that kind of loyalty.”
“No,” William agreed bleakly. When he had entered Queen Eleanor’s service, John had been an engaging imp with a ready smile. But Eleanor had not loved her last-born child; Henry had doted on him; between them, his parents had twisted him awry.
The men drank in morose silence while the sky bruised into dusk. “Have you approached the King about making good on his promise to you of Châteauroux?” Baldwin asked at length.
William shook his head. “Not yet.”
Baldwin eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you want her?”
“It’s a fine prize, but it’s going to be a hard fight to gain it, and will the King be willing to give it up when it comes to the point?” William turned his cup contemplatively between his hands. “Also it’s a long way from England.”
