“No, he did not. When I landed at Dover, the queen sought to persuade the council to accept my offer to appear before them and answer any charges that had been made against me. They balked and sought John’s opinion. I will say this for the man: he is remarkably honest about his dishonesty. He candidly told the council that I’d offered him five hundred marks for his support and invited them to better it. When they offered him two thousand marks, he cheerfully switched sides again. John never lets troublesome scruples get in the way of what he wants. So despite the queen’s support, I was forced to return to Normandy, whilst she stopped John from joining Philippe at the French court.”
Longchamp drew rein unexpectedly, turning in the saddle to look his brother full in the face. “But when I said the queen did me a ‘great service,’ Rob, I did not mean her efforts to end my exile. When I was forced to flee, Archbishop Gautier seized the revenues of my diocese of Ely. I retaliated by laying my own See under Interdict, and he and I excommunicated each other. I did him one better then by also excommunicating the other justiciars and my enemies like Hugh de Nonant, though the English bishops ignored my edicts.”
He grimaced at that, for it still rankled that his fellow bishops had been so quick to abandon him. “When Queen Eleanor made a progress into Ely, she was appalled by the suffering of the people—my people—unable to bury their dead or celebrate the Mass or administer any of the sacraments other than baptizing children and offering the viaticum to the dying. She shamed me into lifting the Interdict, making me realize that in my need to punish Gautier de Coutances, I’d punished the innocent. There was a time when I’d have known that, Rob, but I let my hatred cloud my judgment. She then got the archbishop to return the Ely revenues to me and we absolved each other of our mutual excommunications. She is an extraordinary woman,” he added, causing his brother to regard him in surprise, for Robert had never heard Longchamp speak with such admiration for one of the lesser sex.
Ahead of them loomed the great Norman gateway of the abbey and Longchamp reined in his horse again. “I feel,” he confided wryly, “like Daniel entering the lion’s den.” But then he urged his mount forward, politely requesting admittance when once he’d have demanded it, and his brother began to wonder if he was that rarity—a man truly changed by his misfortunes, able to learn from his past mistakes.
LONGCHAMP’S APPEARANCE SET the council into an uproar. From the dais, where he was seated beside the queen and Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Rouen recoiled as ostentatiously as a man who’d just found a snake in his bedchamber. The justiciars showed a bit more restraint, but their body language made it abundantly clear that Longchamp was an unwelcome intruder. His nemesis, the Bishop of Coventry, was already on his feet, as was the Archbishop of York. Bristling with outrage, Geoff stalked over to intercept Longchamp before he could approach the dais. As tall as his half brother Richard, and as hot-tempered, he towered over the undersized chancellor as he angrily challenged Longchamp’s right to be there, saying scornfully, “I marvel that you’d dare to show your face again in England!”
“Run into any more lusty fishermen, Longchamp?” Hugh de Nonant said with a smirk, unleashing a wave of raucous laughter.
Longchamp flushed but stood his ground. Brushing past Geoff as if he were one of the stone pillars of the guest hall, he limped toward the dais. “Madame,” he said, bowing deeply to the queen, who acknowledged him with a nod. Straightening up, he met Gautier de Coutances’s cold stare without flinching.
“I come before you,” he said, “neither as justiciar nor papal legate nor chancellor, but as a simple bishop and a messenger from our lord the king.”
If he’d hoped to disarm his enemies with humility, he was to be disappointed, for his declaration was met with ridicule, his foes expressing disbelief that the king would ever trust him again. Normally it would have been for the chief justiciar to assert control, but it was obvious that Gautier de Coutances had no intention of coming to the aid of the man who’d once called him “the Pilate of Rouen.” It was Eleanor who put a halt to the mockery, merely by raising her hand. “You’ve seen my son?”