“The great hall?” John echoed in dismay. He thought it penance enough to have to humble his pride before Richard, shrank from doing it before a hall full of hostile witnesses. He opened his mouth to protest, then caught himself. Like Richard, she judged others by standards that made no allowances for human frailties. Richard measured a man by his willingness to bleed, to risk his life upon the thrust of a sword. With his mother, the test was more subtle and more demanding. She might forgive deceit and betrayal, but not weakness. Above all, he knew she would expect a man to answer for the consequences of his actions.
“Lead the way,” he said, with a tight smile. “God forbid that we keep the king waiting.”
RICHARD WAS SEATED UPON the dais at the far end of the hall, only half listening to the Archbishop of Canterbury, for his thoughts kept wandering to what was occurring in the solar above their heads. He looked up when his mother slid into the empty seat to his left and nodded. When a sudden silence fell, he knew his brother had entered the hall. The crowd moved aside hastily, clearing a path to the dais. Richard thought he’d been able to extinguish his anger, but the embers were still smoldering and as he watched while John made what must have been the longest walk of his life, he could feel the heat beginning to build again. As if sensing that, Eleanor reached over and rested her hand lightly on his arm. He covered her hand with his own, wordlessly assuring her that he would not be reneging upon his promise. He would pardon Johnny, for they shared the same blood. But Johnny was going to bleed a little of it first. He was entitled to that much.
“My liege.” Stopping before the dais, John slowly unbuckled his scabbard and laid it upon the steps. Then he knelt. “I can offer you no excuses. I can only ask for your forgiveness—even though I know I do not deserve it.”
Richard studied the younger man, noting the pulse beating in his throat, the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. When he thought John seemed about to jump out of his own skin, he rose to his feet. “Well, you’re here. That counts for something. And our lady mother would have me forgive you. That counts for a great deal. I suppose I should just be thankful that since you are so much given to treachery, you’re so reassuringly inept at it.” He waited for the laughter to subside, for the color to rush to John’s face. “You need not fear, John. A child is not punished if he listens to bad counsel. It is those who led you astray who will feel my wrath.” And he reached down, raising John to his feet.
The audience dutifully applauded and Richard took advantage of the clamor to pitch his voice for John’s ear only. “Your blood may have bought you a pardon, Johnny, but the price is higher for an earldom, higher than you can pay. I’ve no intention of restoring your titles and lands, not until I’m damned well sure that you’re deserving of them . . . if ever.”
As their eyes met, John nodded. “I understand,” he said tonelessly. “I shall remember your generosity, Brother. You may be sure of that.”
WHILE HE COULD LIE convincingly to others, John had rarely been able to lie to himself. He’d inherited too much of the Angevin sense of irony for that. Nor was righteous indignation an emotion indigenous to his temperamental terrain. So he knew he’d gotten off cheaply, given the gravity of his offenses. But that awareness did not soothe his injured pride. Richard’s patronizing pardon hurt more than an excoriating recital of his sins would have done, for it reminded him of his brother’s devastating response after being warned that he was plotting with Philippe to claim the English crown. John is not the man to conquer a kingdom if there is anyone to offer the least resistance. Did Richard truly believe that? Did his bishops and barons? Did they all see him as so worthless?
He’d endured the ordeal with what grace he could muster, ignoring the stares, even smiling when Richard magnanimously dispatched a large salmon swimming in gravy to his end of the table as a mark of royal favor. But as soon as he could, he escaped the hall for the comparative privacy of the manor gardens, grateful to be cloaked in darkness, away from prying eyes. Now that he need no longer fear imprisonment or exile for his betrayal, he was realizing what a rocky road lay ahead of him. How could he hope to regain Richard’s trust? Yet unless he did, he’d be the beggar at the feast. Moreover, it was not just Richard’s contempt that he must deal with. He’d seen the scorn in the eyes of the other men in the hall. Even if God struck Richard down on the morrow and he claimed the throne, how long could he rule if he was neither respected nor feared?
Far better to be judged evil than inept, he thought, with a gleam of mordant humor, and then whirled at the sound of footsteps to find his sister standing several feet away. He’d not expected to see her at Lisieux and he’d not liked having her witness his public humiliation, for they’d gotten on well as children. With memories of his shame still so raw, his control finally cracked. “If you’ve come to offer pity, I do not want any!”