If you’re lucky, he would, Durand thought. Aloud, he said, “I daresay you’re right. But a bit of groveling is a cheap price to pay for a crown, my lord.” He leaned across the table, locking eyes with John. “If ever there was a man who’ll not make old bones, it is your brother. I consider it a minor miracle that he has managed to dodge Death as long as he has. Sooner or later, his luck will run out, and when it does, you need to be there to take advantage of it.”
John’s eyes were an uncommon shade of hazel, but they looked golden now, catching the light from the candle at his elbow. “I think you’re forgetting Richard’s little Spanish bride. Suppose she gives him a son?”
Durand shrugged. “That is the chance you take, my lord. But even if she does so, how likely is it that Richard will live long enough for his son to reach manhood? And no one wants a child king, not when they could have a man grown.”
“You’re asking me to gamble all upon what may or may not happen, Durand.”
“Since when are you averse to gambling, my lord? You wagered that Richard would not come back and lost. This is a gamble with better odds.”
John stared down into his wine cup, as if seeking answers. “What if Richard refuses to forgive me? I was declared an outlaw and traitor by his Nottingham council.”
Durand hid a smile, sure now that he’d penned his sheep. He allowed himself a moment or two of triumph, and then leaned in again, doing all he could to banish John’s misgivings, doing what his queen wanted of him.
ELEANOR STOOD ON THE BATTLEMENTS of Portchester Castle’s high stone keep, heedless of the stinging rain and gusting wind. Portsmouth’s harbor was slate grey, churned with whitecaps, spume being flung high into the air by the waves pounding the shore. She could no longer find the sail of her son’s galley. Her eyes searched the horizon intently, but she saw only storm clouds and the angry sea.
“Madame!” She turned to see the Countess of Aumale hurrying along the rampart walkway, her mantle billowing out behind her as she struggled against the wind. Hawisa had joined them at Portsmouth soon after their arrival on April 24, eager to accompany them to Normandy. Eleanor had welcomed her company, and she was touched that Hawisa would have ventured out onto the battlements, for the other woman had once confessed to an unease of heights. Clearly, Hawisa had heard that Richard’s galley had put out to sea in the teeth of the gale.
“Is it true?” Hawisa sounded breathless, and avoided glancing down into the bailey below. “Has the king really sailed on his own?”
Eleanor nodded. “He grew more and more restless as each day passed, and today he lost all patience. This morning he gave the town of Portsmouth its first royal charter, and this afternoon he declared that he would wait no longer. As you can see,” she said, gesturing toward the hundred ships riding at anchor in the harbor, “the masters of his fleet balked at sailing in such a storm. But Richard paid them no heed and the Sea-Cleaver headed out to sea soon after None rang.”
Hawisa shivered, clutching her mantle as tightly as she could. She could not imagine any rational person choosing to sail in such fearful weather and she was deeply grateful that she was not out on that dark, surging sea with Richard.
Richard’s insanity was all too familiar to Eleanor, for it was a madness he’d shared with his father. Henry had often pitted his will against nature’s fury, sailing in weather even worse than this May squall. When they’d journeyed to England for their coronation, he’d insisted upon braving a wild November gale, and for years afterward, the mere memory of that harrowing Channel crossing could make Eleanor feel queasy. She still remembered her frustration and her fury when he’d taken her back to England as his prisoner, unable to protest when he refused to wait till a savage storm abated, unable to stop him from taking nine-year-old Joanna and eight-year-old John with them. At least Richard had put out to sea alone; Henry always insisted that his fleet sail with him, even when his sailors were pleading that he stay in port. Eleanor had not understood it then, nor did she now. And as she gazed across Portsmouth’s storm-whipped harbor, she was torn between anger at her son’s reckless lunacy and fear for his safety. Surely he could not have survived so much only to drown because of his own stubbornness? But all she could do was to pray to the Almighty to save him from his own folly.
RICHARD’S GALLEY WAS so battered by the storm that it was blown backward by the wind and they had to take shelter in a cove on the Isle of Wight. Much to his frustration and somewhat to his embarrassment, the winds continued to be so contrary the next day that he had no choice but to return to Portsmouth. There he ran into a force no less powerful than the weather—his furious mother. Eleanor told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to sail again until the winds were favorable, and he reluctantly agreed to wait. So it was not until May 12 that his fleet left Portsmouth behind in the distance, landing that same day at Barfleur. Neither Richard nor Eleanor would ever see England again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MAY 1194