Even that would not have been enough to daunt the count, but Bishop Hugh then added his voice to Longchamp’s, reminding de Forz that it was not for mortal man to question the ways of the Almighty. Although he’d spoken mildly enough, there was an aura of sanctity about the bishop that gave his most casual utterance great weight, and de Forz lapsed into a sullen silence, equally irked with both prelates.
Guy, falling back into his familiar role of peacemaker, sought to steer the conversation into a more innocuous channel and asked where the Lord of Chateauroux was, for he knew that André de Chauvigny had been with the king continuously since the latter’s release. Will Marshal had just moved toward the fire to warm himself and he was the one to answer, saying that André had left to spend Christmas at Déols Castle with his pregnant wife and young son.
Guy’s well-meaning intercession only vexed de Forz even more, for he disliked both André de Chauvigny and Will Marshal. Upon Richard’s accession to the throne, he’d rewarded all three men with marriages to great heiresses. Isabel de Clare, the granddaughter of an Irish king, had brought the Marshal lands in Normandy, England, South Wales, and Ireland. André’s marriage to Denise de Déols had given him the barony of Chateauroux, making him one of the most powerful lords of the Poitevin Berry border region. And de Forz was wed to Hawisa, the Countess of Aumale, who held vast estates in Normandy and Yorkshire. While de Forz had envied the Marshal’s prize, he’d still been delighted to become Count of Aumale and have such riches at his disposal.
His pleasure had soon curdled, though, for he’d been saddled with an unwilling wife. The prideful bitch had balked at marrying him, had to be coerced into it by the king. He’d been incensed by her reluctance, for his was an old and proud Poitevin family and he’d been Richard’s naval commander in the war against the Saracens. He’d discovered that Hawisa was outrageously outspoken for a woman, stubborn and reckless. Even after he’d been provoked into disciplining her as she deserved, she’d remained rebellious. Blood dripping from her nose and mouth, she’d regarded him defiantly, warning that if he ever struck her again, he’d pay for it with his life. He’d laughed, of course, pointing out that no weak woman could match a man’s strength. But she’d given him a chilling smile, saying there were many ways for a wife to rid herself of an unwanted husband, that he could be taken ill at dinner or set upon by brigands as he reeled out of a tavern one dark night or thrown from his horse when the saddle cinch suddenly broke. Although he’d forced another scornful laugh, he’d been genuinely shocked, and he’d not hit her again. At least she’d been able to perform a wife’s primary duty and give him a son. But so had Isabel de Clare and Denise de Deols, and he was sure they were proper wives, obedient and deferential.
Looking resentfully now at the Marshal, begrudging him the good fortune that could have been his if only he’d been given Isabel de Clare instead of Hawisa, he gave a harsh laugh, saying, “Well, de Chauvigny can have a dull family Christmas by the hearth, but I prefer to attend the king’s Christmas Court at Rouen. Wives are not likely to be welcome there, thank God.”
De Forz realized at once that he’d gone too far, for he was suddenly the target of all eyes, none of them friendly. Will Marshal; Longchamp; that self-righteous Hugh of Lincoln; the king’s crusty clerk, Master Fulk; and those paltry knights who’d been with the king in Germany and were taking shameless advantage of it—that Welsh whelp, Warin Fitz Gerald, and Guillain de l’Etang. Even the Earl of Chester was giving him a disapproving look, and all knew Chester and his Breton shrew of a wife had not exchanged a civil word in years. Still, he could see how the king might take his comment amiss, for he knew Richard was not likely to make common cause with him over their unwanted wives. Would any of these royal lackeys dare to go blabbing to the king? That was a troubling thought, and he jumped nervously when the hall door banged open then, admitting a blast of cold air and the king.
Summoning the others back to the table, Richard dropped down into his chair, glancing from Will Marshal to Longchamp. “I’d hoped to have news about Leicester. I sent one of my best agents to find out how he is being treated at étampes, but he had no luck. He says the earl is allowed no visitors and those guarding him are as closemouthed as deaf mutes. Even buying them drinks at the local tavern did not loosen their tongues.” The other men tried to assure him—and themselves—that the French king would respect Leicester’s high birth, rank, and service in the Holy Land, but his own experience left Richard unconvinced. He did not want to dwell upon his fears for the earl now, though, and he turned toward his chancellor, about to resume the council, when Will Marshal suddenly sprang to his feet with a jubilant shout. “Baldwin!”