“YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS?” Richard stared at the archbishop in disbelief. “You are defending that treacherous, foul hellhound? If Beauvais is a pious son of the Church, then I’m bidding fair to reach sainthood!”
“I am not defending him,” Hubert said hastily. “I am simply saying that we cannot ignore the fact that he is a prelate of the Holy Church, however little we may like it. I had a letter from Pietro of Capua, the papal legate. He is on his way to the French court and he is expressing outrage that you’ve imprisoned a bishop, is threatening to lay Normandy under Interdict—”
“What are you asking, that I release him? Not even for the surety of my own soul!”
“No, I am not asking that, Richard. But Beauvais’s continuing captivity could cause a strain between England and the papacy. You need to bear that in mind.”
“And I have so much reason to be grateful to the papacy! I owe my mother and my vassals and subjects for buying my freedom. I owe the Pope nothing!”
Richard was so angry that Hubert no longer argued, seeing it would be to no avail. But his silence did nothing to quench the king’s temper. His face flushed, mouth set, he glared at his old friend as if he were the enemy. “Beauvais is the man responsible for the time I spent at Trifels in chains. He urged Heinrich to treat me harshly in order to break my spirit. He came to mock my misery, took joy in dwelling upon all that I’d never experience again, telling me that I’d never see the sun or feel the rain on my face, that I’d never swive a woman or ride a horse or hear music, that I’d be left to rot alone in the dark—”
Richard stopped suddenly, cutting off his words in midsentence. Had Beauvais truly taunted him like that? Or was he borrowing from the harrowing, dreaded dreams that still haunted his nights even now? He found those dreams so troubling because they seemed so utterly and mercilessly real. But never before had they spilled over into the daylight like this, and he was shaken to realize what a blurred line separated the present from the past. Turning his back on Hubert, he moved to the open window, staring up at the dark silhouette starkly outlined against the reddening sky, the castle created solely by his will, each chiseled stone proof of the power he still exercised over other men, the vagaries of war, and his own fate.
Hubert said nothing, silenced by the raw emotion in Richard’s voice as he’d railed against the Bishop of Beauvais. When he moved away from the window, his anger still smoldered but was no longer in full flame. “Beauvais slandered me the width and breadth of Christendom. At Speyer, I found myself entrapped in a web of his lies, and when I was able to free myself, he did all he could to make sure I would die in a French oubliette. I will never forgive him. Never.”
“Nor would I ask you to,” Hubert said quietly. “It is my understanding that you have agreed to ransom Sir Guillaume de Mello and the other knights taken captive that day by Mercadier, but not Beauvais. I heard that you turned down a ransom offer of ten thousand marks. Is that true?”
“It is. I will never set him free.”
“I understand,” Hubert said, “I do. I ask only that you ease the conditions of his imprisonment. As long as he is being held in such harsh confinement, the controversy about his captivity will continue. Not for his sake, but for the pallium he has the right to wear.”
Richard was not moved by the appeal. “Mercadier did not burst into a church and drag him away from the altar, Hubert. He was taken on the battlefield, leading an armed force to raise the siege at Milly-sur-Thérain. He is a false priest, a godless man who knows no more of piety than a wild boar.”
“I’ll not argue that point,” Hubert said with a faint smile. “I ask only that you think upon what I’ve said.”
Another silence ensued. When Richard at last agreed to do so, Hubert suspected that it was a grudging courtesy, no more than that. But he was satisfied, feeling that he’d discharged the duty so unwillingly imposed upon him by the papal legate.
Both men were relieved by the sudden knock at the door, wanting to put this uncomfortable conversation behind them. At Richard’s command, his squire entered the solar. Hubert had not seen Arne in several years, and was surprised by how much he’d changed; he was eighteen now, and had left the awkwardness of adolescence behind. He greeted the archbishop with the confidence gained during four years in the king’s service, and then smiled at Richard.
“I know you were eager to hear from my lord marshal, sire.”
AS SOON AS RICHARD returned to the hall, he knew that Will’s Flemish mission had been successful before a word was said, for the man at Will’s side was one Richard recognized, Simon de Haverets, the marshal of the Count of Flanders. Glancing toward Hubert, he said jubilantly, “First Toulouse and now Flanders. Philippe has just lost his last ally.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO