RICHARD’S CUTTHROAT TRIFELS GUARDS had been replaced immediately upon his arrival at Hagenau with men who were much more polite and personable. They’d made themselves as inconspicuous as possible during his time in the great hall and were escorting him now to his new quarters, which Markward von Annweiler had blithely assured him would be “more to your liking.”
As they walked, Longchamp glanced at Richard from time to time. The other man was staring straight ahead, his face utterly blank. The chancellor knew he was still seething, though. “I am sorry, my liege. I never expected you to be ambushed like that.” He got no response, but he was too troubled to keep silent. “Sire . . . is there any chance those Christchurch monks might actually elect Savaric?”
“No.” After several more moments of silence, Richard said, “Heinrich provided me with a scribe at Speyer, too, but what he does not know is that I chose to write one letter myself, which William de St Mère-Eglise carried to London, in which I told my mother that I wanted Hubert Walter to be the next archbishop.”
Longchamp felt an involuntary pang for the death of a dream, even though he understood now how unrealistic it had been. The Christchurch monks might well have elected him, for he’d been on excellent terms with them, but the English would never have accepted him. “I am relieved to hear that,” he confessed, “for Savaric’s accession to the archbishopric would surely be one of the signs of the coming Apocalypse.”
“It would never have happened,” Richard said flatly, “even if I’d not already sent that letter choosing Hubert Walter. My mother knows me too well. She’d have realized that any letter written in support of Savaric Fitz Geldwin would have been done under duress.”
The chancellor gnawed his lower lip, understanding that Richard had never expected to do anything “under duress.” “I think you handled that outrageous demand as well as could be done,” he said, after another lengthy silence. “As long as we win the war, it does not matter if we lose a battle or two.”
Richard came to an abrupt halt, turning upon Longchamp such a burning look that he could not help flinching, even though he realized the king’s rage was not directed at him. “Good God, man, of course it matters!”
HUBERT WALTER AND WILLIAM de St Mère-Eglise traveled so swiftly that they reached London in just twenty days. They’d set such a fast pace that they’d arrived before the abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge even though the latter had departed Speyer two days earlier, and so they had the pleasure of being the ones to bring the queen mother the news of her son’s bravura performance before the Imperial Diet. Now they were dining with Eleanor in the great hall of her quarters in the Tower. Freed of the constraints of Lent, Eleanor’s cooks had prepared an elaborate meal. As the season for roebuck had begun at Easter, the queen’s table was graced with roast venison, as well as lamb stew, capon pie, sorrel soup with figs and dates, and Lombardy custard. The guests were serenaded with harp music and a sound Eleanor’s household had not often heard in the past few months—her laughter.
“Had it not been his destiny to rule, your son would have made a superb lawyer,” Hubert said with a smile, “for he addressed each and every charge against him and rendered them invalid, exposing them for the falsehoods they were. You’d have been very proud of him, Madame, for it was truly one of his finest hours.”
“He must have put on a spectacular defense, indeed, if he forced Heinrich to back down,” Eleanor said, with a smile of her own. “You and Dean William have brought me a precious gift this day, my lord bishop—hope.” She devoted herself to the capon on her trencher then, but her mind was ranging far afield, weighing all that the bishop and the dean had shared with her in the course of the afternoon.
William Briwerre, the only one of the justiciars then in the city, began to tell Hubert Walter and William de St Mère-Eglise that John’s rebellion had not gone as he’d hoped. His invasion with hired Flemish ships had not materialized, for Eleanor had called out the levies in the southeast. “The Count of Mortain then landed on his own, hired Welsh routiers to garrison the castles he’d seized last year, and dared to come to London, where he demanded that the justiciars swear fealty to him, claiming King Richard was dead. Of course, we refused, and he retreated to Windsor Castle, which is now under siege by William Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen, whilst the Bishop of Durham is besieging his castle at Tickhill.”