“I know that, sire. But surely your lady would be happy to hear from you again—”
“I said no, Anselm!” Richard had not meant to raise his voice, but his chaplain’s well-meaning meddling had struck a nerve. He’d labored over those earlier letters for hours, unable to find the right words, and he did not want to go through that again. What was he supposed to write to Berenguela? Tell her about the weather in Worms? The dreams he had about being buried alive in French dungeons blacker than any pits of Hell? How he’d had to make yet another shameful concession to that whoreson Heinrich and betray the monks of Glastonbury?
Anselm was looking at him in dismay, and his bewilderment only added to Richard’s frustration. If even Anselm did not understand, how in God’s name could Berenguela? He rose, no longer in the mood for music, aware of the silence, the stares. Deliverance came from an unexpected source—the parrot, which suddenly said, with surprising clarity, “Ballocks!” The men burst into startled laughter, and the awkward moment was gone, if not forgotten.
HUGH DE NONANT, Bishop of Coventry, was living proof that outer packaging could be quite deceptive. He was stout and ruddy-cheeked, his balding head resembling a monk’s fringed tonsure, his blue eyes wreathed in what looked like laugh lines, and at first glance, he seemed good-natured and benevolent, even grandfatherly. But his benign, innocuous appearance and easy smile were camouflage; the man himself was cynical, shrewd, ambitious, untrustworthy, and utterly ruthless in pursuit of his own ends.
For once, he was off balance, though, his courtly poise ragged around the edges. “The sight of you gladdens these aging eyes, my liege,” he murmured, but the unctuous greeting fell on deaf ears and he seemed to sense that, for he no longer met Richard’s gaze.
“You took your time in responding to my summons, my lord bishop,” Richard said, glazing each word in ice. “I began to suspect that you’d joined my brother when he fled to the French court.”
“Indeed not, sire! You have been led astray if you’ve come to doubt my loyalty.” The bishop turned to glare at the chancellor, saying it was all too easy to guess who’d been slandering his good name. Longchamp glared back, his body rigid, black eyes combative.
“My chancellor has earned my trust. You have not.”
“My liege, that is most unfair. Your lord brother is the heir to the throne should evil befall you, and I gave him the respect due his rank, no more than that. My loyalty to you has never wavered, not even for a heartbeat.”
Richard did not bother to disguise his skepticism, for he wanted Nonant to squirm, to feel in the very marrow of his bones the fear of losing royal favor. “If that is so, then I expect you have brought with you a generous contribution to my ransom.”
Nonant’s florid complexion reddened still further. “Sire . . . that was indeed my intention. I left London with a sizable sum of money. But we were ambushed on the road and robbed of every last farthing.” He turned then, pointing an accusing finger at Longchamp. “And it is all this man’s doing!”
Longchamp looked astonished and then outraged. Before he could make an indignant denial, Richard put a restraining hand on his arm. “You’ll have to do better than that, my lord bishop. The chancellor has been with me since he arranged a truce with the French king in early July. I can assure you he was not prowling English roads as a highwayman.”
“I did not mean he was the one leading the bandits, my liege. But I have no doubt they were sent by his sister’s husband, the castellan of Dover Castle!”
One glance toward Longchamp was enough to assure Richard that the chancellor knew nothing of this. “You have proof of this, of course?”
“I had the man excommunicated, my lord, so sure am I of his guilt.”
“That may be your idea of proof, my lord bishop, but it is not mine. You are fortunate that I do not have a suspicious nature, or else I might have doubted this very convenient robbery of yours.” Richard stared at the bishop until he became visibly uncomfortable, sweat beading his forehead and his breath quickening. “I have been blessed with a good memory, and you may be sure of this—that I will remember who proved themselves to be loyal during these difficult times, and who did not.”
“I am loyal, sire, I swear it!”
Longchamp would normally have taken great pleasure in his enemy’s discomfiture, but he was too uneasy himself to enjoy Nonant’s desperate attempts to placate his king. Once the bishop had been dismissed, the chancellor eyed Richard nervously. “Sire, I know nothing of this alleged robbery.”
“I know that, Guillaume.” Despite that reassurance, Richard’s expression was inscrutable. “Do you think your brother-in-law is capable of so rash an act?”
Longchamp hesitated, but he was not going to lie to his king. “It is possible,” he said at last.