Fulk’s eyes were heavy-lidded and deep-set; now, however, they opened wider than gold bezants. “You—the Archbishop of Canterbury? When pigs—oof!” That exhalation was caused by Richard, who jabbed him sharply in the ribs and then asked Savaric about his “good news.”
The bishop would have preferred to dwell upon his coming elevation to the highest ecclesiastical office in England, correctly assuming that Fulk was going to find it very difficult to accept. But now that they’d gotten that precious letter of support from Richard, he was eager to retain his king’s favor. “Of course, sire. The emperor and the French king have agreed to meet next month at Vaucouleurs on the Nativity of St John the Baptist. I wanted to inform you straightaway, knowing you’d be pleased, for once the emperor convinces Philippe to make peace with you, your kingdom will no longer be in peril.”
With Savaric’s first words, Richard had stiffened, feeling as if he’d taken a physical blow to his midsection. He took several deep breaths, paying no heed to the bishop as he babbled on happily, saying he thought it likely his cousin the emperor would want him to attend this conference and he would be honored to act on behalf of his king. Fulk looked at Richard, then back at Savaric, and for once, held his tongue.
At last Saravic noticed that the conversation was utterly one-sided, and reluctantly took his leave, promising to return on the morrow. Once he’d gone, Fulk switched to Latin, even though he thought it unlikely any of the guards understood enough French to eavesdrop. “Sire, what is going on? Surely that puffed-up peacock is not to be archbishop! As for this upcoming conference with the French king, I do not like the sound of that, not at all.”
Richard dismissed Savaric’s prospects with a profanity, adding, “We’ll see the Second Coming ere that fool ever wears the holy pallium. And you are right to be wary of this meeting. If it comes to pass, it will likely mean disaster for me. Philippe is eager to outbid my mother and my justiciars, wants Heinrich to turn me over to him instead of setting me free.”
While this possibility had preyed upon Fulk’s peace for the past five months, it was still chilling to hear it spoken aloud. “But it would still be easier—and less damaging to Heinrich’s reputation—for him to accept an English ransom. And the queen mother will never be outbid, sire. Surely you know that?”
Richard had risen again, and as he paced the confines of his chamber, he put Fulk in mind of the caged lions he’d once seen at London’s Tower. “If it were just a question of money, I’d not fear the outcome. But Philippe is in a position to offer Heinrich something that my mother cannot, something that could well tip the scales in his favor. When they meet at Vaucouleurs, he will likely promise to provide military aid in putting down the rebellion of Heinrich’s lords. And if that happens, do you truly think Heinrich will refuse?”
Despite the warmth of the May sun flooding the window-seat, Fulk suddenly felt very cold. “Surely God would not let that happen,” he said, without much conviction.
“It may be blasphemous to say this, but I cannot rely upon God to keep this meeting from taking place. No, if catastrophe is to be averted, I must do it myself.”
“How will you do that, sire?”
“I do not know,” Richard conceded, “at least not yet.” And it seemed to him that he could feel his father’s sarcastic spirit close at hand, nodding approvingly as he said, “I will find a way, though.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MAY 1193
St Albans, England