WILL MARSHAL AND HUBERT Walter were at Vaudreuil Castle, arbitrating a dispute between two Norman barons, when an urgent message arrived from Chalus. Will was stunned by Richard’s letter, for he made it clear that his chances of recovery were not good. He instructed Will to go to Rouen and take control of the castle, warning him to keep the news of his injury secret. Will confided only in the archbishop, who was just as shaken, and they set out at once for Rouen.
The following three days were difficult ones. The death of a king was always a troubling time, especially if the succession was not settled. But Richard was also a man they both knew well, a man they greatly respected, and their grieving was personal as well as political. Will had not given up all hope, though, for Richard had so often defied the odds that it was easy to believe he could do so again. Will clung to that hope until Palm Sunday Eve when another messenger rode in from the south as he was preparing for bed. Slumping onto the closest coffer, he stared down at the letter as if he expected those bleak, brutal words to change, as if the world as they knew it had not become an unfamiliar, frightening place. It took a while before he could bring himself to order his horse saddled, to tell his startled squire that, despite the late hour, he would be calling upon the Archbishop of Canterbury at the priory of Notre-Dame du Pré.
THEY SAT IN SILENCE, watching the dying embers in the hearth flicker and fade away. Hubert Walter had sent for wine, but they had yet to touch it. Hubert had always prided himself upon his pragmatism. He was finding it impossible to put his emotions aside, though, to respond to this crisis as a prince of the Church rather than a friend of the man who’d died on Tuesday eve.
“This may sound foolish,” he said, “but after watching Richard dice with Death more times than I could count, I came to believe that it was a game he could not lose.”
Will blinked rapidly, for his eyes were stinging. “I think we all did. . . .”
“And what solace is there for us now? I greatly fear that the Angevin empire will not long survive him.”
Will thought it would be all too easy to give in to despair. However, that was a luxury he could not afford, not with a wife and six children and the vast de Clare estates to protect. “We must act quickly, my lord archbishop. Once the French learn of our king’s death, they will swoop down upon us like a hawk upon a crippled heron.”
Hubert’s mouth thinned as he thought of the joy that the news from Chalus would give Philippe Capet. “It would have been easier if Arthur were better known to us, if his mother had only allowed him to be raised at Richard’s court. But that is spilt milk. He is said to be a clever lad, and a spirited one, for all his youth. If men rally to him—”
“I think that would be a bad course to take,” Will cut in, for there was too much at stake not to speak bluntly. “Arthur has treacherous advisers around him, and he is already said to be prideful and stubborn. If we crown him, who will truly be ruling in his stead? The King of France, I fear.”
“And would you rather it be John? We do not know the manner of man Arthur may become, but we know all too well the man that John is.”
“I know,” Will conceded. “But a brother is closer in blood than a nephew. Moreover, at least John is a man grown. And our king named him as his heir.”
“What choice had he? Lacking a son of his own . . .” Hubert let the words trail off, for as deeply as he mourned Richard, he was angry, too, that he had been so irresponsible, that he had not taken greater care to ensure the succession. He ought to have put his queen aside once it became obvious she was barren or have come to terms with the Bretons. “I do not want to see John as king.”
“Few do. But John is all we have.”
The archbishop started to speak, stopped himself. He knew most men were likely to agree with the Marshal that John was the lesser of evils, and a civil war would be an even worse calamity than choosing John over Arthur. But he remained convinced that this was a great mistake. “So be it,” he said grimly. “But this much I can tell you, that you will never come to regret anything you’ve done as much as you will regret this.”