It was at Le Mans that he’d seen his father for the last time. As the army led by the French king and Richard closed in on the city, Henry had sent him to safety. Although he’d feigned reluctance, he’d been glad to go, for by then he knew that his father was dying and it was time to strike a deal with Richard and Philippe. He’d found it easy enough to convince himself that he had no choice, that he was doing what any sensible man would have done: abandoning a sinking ship. And at first he’d been confident that he’d made the right decision. Richard had scorned those who’d deserted his father in his final days, honoring, instead, the men who’d stayed loyal, like Will Marshal and Baldwin de Bethune. But he’d made an exception for his brother, bestowing upon John six English counties and a princely income of four thousand pounds a year. John had soon learned, though, that other men did not respect him. Oh, they were deferential to him as the king’s brother and heir, but he could see it in their eyes; they thought it despicable that he had betrayed his dying father. And it was then that Henry began to invade his dreams. Never shouting or ranting or berating him. Far worse. He was a silent spirit, watching his son with sad eyes, fading away whenever John tried to defend himself, to explain why he’d fled Le Mans and made a private peace with Richard and the French king.
So even though he’d been given a seat at the high table in the great hall, John was not enjoying himself on this Monday in Holy Week. Will Marshal and his countess, Isabel de Clare, had arrived that afternoon and while Isabel caught up with André’s wife, Denise de Déols, the men were telling Will about the latest offer by the French king—that disputes be settled by a contest of champions, five on each side. But after Richard insisted that he and Philippe be two of the champions, the French lost all interest in the idea. Will and those who’d not heard this before burst into laughter. John smiled, too; although he was bone-weary of hearing Richard extolled as a cross between Roland and the pagan god of war, Mars, he took considerable pleasure in the thought of Philippe’s discomfort. Yet he was still relieved when the meal was finally done and he could retreat to his own chamber, away from all prying eyes.
Since he was bored and had not been able to bring Ursula to Le Mans, he sent Durand into the town to find him a whore and then settled down on the bed with a flagon of wine. But he soon received a surprise summons from his brother.
He found Richard in the palace solar with Will Marshal and André. They were trading memories of the siege of Le Mans, laughing as though they’d not been on opposite sides. John already knew Will had unhorsed Richard when he’d set out in pursuit of Henry, who’d been forced to flee after the French fought their way into the city. The story had become famous, and Will had been sure he’d ruined himself by that public humiliation of a man not known for his forgiving nature. But to his amazement, he’d been restored to royal favor and given Isabel de Clare as his bride. John had not known that Will had also nearly captured André that same day. While he’d managed to get away from Will, he’d broken his arm in the escape, and Richard was teasing him about a similar incident in the Holy Land, when he’d somehow been injured by a Saracen he’d fatally wounded. John listened with a fixed smile, for he did not understand the enjoyment that men took in reliving memories of near-death experiences. In that, he was more their father’s son than Richard, for Henry had not liked war, and although when he fought, he fought well, he’d never gloried in it as Richard did.
John was shifting restlessly in his seat, wondering if Durand had come back yet with his harlot, when Richard finally turned to him. “I have good news for you, Johnny. I am going to restore your forfeit estates.”
John sat up straight, staring at his brother in astonished delight. “Richard, thank you!”
“Your lands, not your castles. They will remain in my hands.”
That was a great letdown, for castles were power, but John knew better than to let his disappointment show, and thanked Richard effusively again. André and Will were trying to hide their disapproval, having already argued that John’s capture of évreux had been dishonorable and his flight from the Vaudreuil Castle siege had been craven. They did not understand why Richard was so indulgent with John, although they suspected the queen mother had played a role in this. Exchanging glances, they silently agreed that no outsiders could ever fully comprehend the family dynamics of the Angevins, at once personal and political, vengeful and forgiving, and always dynastic.
ARNE SAT UP ON HIS PALLET, listening intently. When it came again, a muffled, indistinct sound, but one he’d heard before, he flung the covers back, shivering as he struggled to pull his shirt over his head. Padding barefoot across the chamber, he drew aside the linen hangings that cocooned Richard’s bed, allowing the low-burning flames in the hearth to chase away some of the dark. As he expected, Richard was trapped in another bad dream, tossing his head from side to side on the pillow, his mouth contorted, his breathing labored. But his sheets were soaked in sweat, and when Arne reached out timidly to shake Richard’s shoulder, he jerked back in dismay, for his king’s skin was searing to the touch.