“What is it?” Isabelle knew there was more. “Tell me.”
He sighed out hard. “The Queen has summoned the justiciars to a meeting to discuss the issue. Prince John already knew about Richard through his spies. He’s gone to King Philip and done him homage for England and all of Richard’s lands over the Narrow Sea.”
“Holy Mary!” Isabelle gazed at William with foreboding while gooseflesh rose on her arms. Richard alive but helpless, John on the rampage for the crown. It was a disastrous brew even before it was stirred.
William dragged his winter court robe from the coffer and a pair of thick woollen braies. “We’ll have to alert all the shoreline castles and keep a watch on John’s vassals—and find a fast way of releasing Richard from prison, which is going to involve a lot of silver that we don’t have. The council will have to make some swift decisions.” Going to another coffer he removed his baggage roll and wrapped tunic, braies, a pair of fine court shoes, and a clean shirt inside it, fastened the ties, and lifted his fur-lined cloak off the peg in the wall. “I’ll be home with news as soon as I can. If we ride now, we can be in Oxford before nightfall.” He turned back to her, embraced her hard and swiftly, kissed his two sons, and blew out of the room.
Isabelle leaned against the coffer, her lips tingling from the pressure of his. After a moment she went to pick up Richard. Carrying him at her hip, ushering little Will before her, she took her sons down to the courtyard to watch their father and his mesnie ride out into the raw February afternoon, gold and green silks snapping against a leaden sky.
Rain lashed against the shutters of Eleanor’s chamber at Oxford Castle, the drops striking so hard that they sounded like stones. Outside it was full night and black as hell. The Queen shivered and huddled into her fur-lined mantle. Her right hand clutched a water-stained parchment. The ink had run and smeared, but the words were still legible to those who could read, and those who could not had been apprised of the contents. A messenger from John had been intercepted on his way to Windsor and from the details Eleanor had just read out, it was obvious that the Prince and the King of France were assembling a fleet at Wissant and hiring mercenaries hand over fist, ready to invade England. It was also plain that the messenger captured had only been one of several and that all of John’s castellans would be receiving letters from the Prince that would put their keeps on a war footing.
“We should call out the fyrd along the south coast,” William said. “If we are vigilant, we can prevent the enemy from landing.”
Eleanor’s jaw jutted as she agreed. There was fire and anger in her eyes. Over seventy years old she might be, but still a lioness. “I will have every baron in the land swear allegiance to Richard. Let all faithful castellans look to their defences and prepare to deal with invaders and rebels.”
“It shall be done, madam.” De Coutances bowed acknowledgement. “I will draft the notices tonight. The Abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge will go immediately to Germany and open negotiations for the King’s release.”
“Good.” Eleanor’s agitation showed in the way she kneaded the thick fabric of her mantle between her fingers. She glanced irritably towards the shutters. “This accursed rain,” she snapped. “I’ve never grown used to it.”
“Other difficulties I can do my best to allay, madam,” said de Coutances with bleak humour, “but all I can offer to do about the weather is pray.”
Eleanor gave a hollow laugh. “I think we have more important things to ask God,” she said. “My husband kept me prisoner for sixteen years in Salisbury. I know how it corrodes the spirit.” Her face took on a stubborn cast. “I will have my older son returned, and I will have my younger one put in his place—and it is not Richard’s, nor will be while Richard draws breath.”
William exchanged glances with the other justiciars. Richard and John had never been renowned for their brotherly love and where John at least was concerned, fratricide was probably well within his lexicon of capabilities. The Queen must know it too, but from the way she was holding herself, the men judged it wise to keep their own counsel.
John Marshal gazed over the battlements at the Welsh mercenaries pitching camp in Marlborough’s bailey and swallowed hard. A March wind roared around his ears and his cloak kept trying to take off like a huge bird of prey. Wales being a traditional enemy as well as a fruitful place to recruit mercenaries, he was made uneasy at the sight of so many of them so close to the keep and armed with their innocuous-looking but deadly longbows. However, he could hardly refuse to house them when his royal master was standing next to him, a sour smile on his lips and his amber eyes narrowed against the bite of the wind.
The Prince had crept into England by crossing the Narrow Sea during the night in an unlit fishing boat and beaching in a bay where the only witnesses, a pair of fishermen, were now feeding the denizens of the sea floor. Of course others would be aware of his presence here now, but he had stolen a march on the justiciars and by coming around behind them had succeeded in buying troops that otherwise he would have had difficulty obtaining.
“I’m glad to see the keep is well stocked,” the Prince said.
“Yes, sire,” John Marshal replied, thinking that he would have to find the wherewithal to restock it unless the Prince moved on very soon with his locust army of Welsh. He had ordered his wife to stay in her chamber—not that there was much chance of her emerging of her own accord. Unlike his brother’s Countess, she didn’t have that kind of backbone.
The Prince paced along the wall walk to the next merlon and leaned against it. “Richard’s dead,” he said. “My mother refuses to believe it because he’s always been her favourite, but she’s old and deluded.”
“It is not true that he’s in prison in Germany?”
The Prince snorted. “That’s a tale concocted by Walter de Coutances and the justiciars because they want to keep their power. Richard may have arrived in Germany, but he’ll never leave. You are my sworn vassal and you’ve been my man for what, ten years now?”
“Ten years this midsummer,” John confirmed.
“Your loyalty will be rewarded.” The Prince tugged a ring off his finger and presented it to his castellan. “Wear this. Send it if you have need.”
“Sire.” John felt a flush of importance and pride. If John were made King, he wondered what those rewards might be. Greater than William’s perhaps? At his darkest core nested a secret hope that William might find his fortunes reversed and have to eat humble pie for a change.
“Where will I find you, sire?”
The Prince gave a sardonic grin. “Worried that I’m going to eat you out of supplies or take a notion to that boney little wife of yours?”
John coloured. He hated the Prince’s cruel sense of humour, but was not of the nature to fence with him or let it roll off his back. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait for it to run its course.
“These men are bound for my keeps at Wallingford and Windsor and the lady Aline has nothing with which to tempt me. Your brother’s wife, though…” The Prince’s grin broadened. “Not that I’m foolish enough to try.” He raised his hand to blow eloquently on his fingertips. “Let him handle her. There are plenty of sweet apples in the orchard without resorting to that one.” He glanced sidelong at his castellan. “Don’t look so purse-mouthed or I’ll begin to think that self-righteousness is a Marshal trait.”
John Marshal stared at his feet, enduring, unable to force a smile. He heard the Prince give an elaborate sigh. On the sward below the tower, one of the canvasses caught a gust of wind and flapped across the grass like a huge wounded bird, several bare-legged mercenaries in pursuit. “Speaking of Marshal traits,” the Prince said thoughtfully, “how likely is. it that your brother could be persuaded to bolster my cause…if you were to have a word with him?”
John made a face. William’s lands and confirmed military ability made his support a very attractive proposition to the Prince, but John Marshal had no intention of giving William a chance to usurp his own position at the Prince’s side. “He won’t listen to me,” he said brusquely. “He’s always gone his own way. If he is anyone’s man, he is your mother’s…” He didn’t need to add that Eleanor would be the last person in England to give up hope on her eldest son’s life and that William would sustain her to the end of that belief.
The younger man’s mouth tightened. “We’ll see about that,” he said and moved along the wall walk to the tower stairs.
