Richard nodded. “You’ll be able to tell them all that I thought best not to commit to parchment.” He gave the bishop a sidelong glance and a mischievous smile. “You’ll be most interested, though, in one of the letters I entrusted to William, telling my lady mother that we need to address the vacant archbishopric of Canterbury. It has been over two years, after all, since Archbishop Baldwin died at Acre. I’d say it is long overdue to fill it, no?”
Hubert nodded, hoping that his inner agitation was concealed beneath his matter-of-fact demeanor. As much as he yearned for the archbishopric, he’d never discussed it with Richard, too proud to campaign for a post that he might be judged unqualified for. Hubert had received extensive administrative and legal training in the household of his uncle, King Henry’s chief justiciar, and had gained considerable experience serving as a justice of the Exchequer Court before Richard had approved his elevation to the bishopric of Salisbury. But he lacked the formal education expected of a prince of the Church, and was self-conscious about his inadequate command of Latin; he’d had to rely upon William’s whispered translation in order to follow Richard’s speech to the Imperial Diet. Fearing that if he asked Richard and was refused, it might damage a relationship he valued greatly, he’d never sought to plead his own case before the king. Nor would he do so now.
“I hope the monks of Christchurch Priory are more receptive to your choice this time,” he said instead, for Richard’s last attempt to select an archbishop had failed. He’d wanted the monks to elect the Archbishop of Monreale, having been impressed by the Sicilian prelate during his stay in Messina. But the Canterbury monks had balked and, finding it easier to defy the king at a distance, they’d declared they would not elect a “foreigner.” Instead they’d chosen the Bishop of Bath, Reginald Fitz-Jocelyn, the uncle of the current Bishop of Bath, Savaric, who’d maneuvered to secure his uncle’s election so he might gain the Bath bishopric for himself. The new archbishop had died within a month, however, and the post had remained vacant since then.
“I was very tactful—for once—in my letter to the Christchurch monks,” Richard assured Hubert, “writing only that they are to hold an election with the advice of the queen and William de St Mère-Eglise. My mother will diplomatically inform them of my choice, but in such a way that they never realize they are being herded where she wishes them to go.” He smiled, saying, “My mother is very good at that. My lord father, on the other hand, preferred a more direct approach. He actually wrote to the monks of Winchester that he ordered them to hold free elections, but forbade them to elect anyone but his clerk!”
Hubert joined in his laughter, but it sounded forced to Richard. A master of suspense—a trait he’d inherited from his father—he’d planned to drag the announcement out. Realizing how nervous the bishop was, though, he took pity. “I have told my mother that I want you as the next Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Hubert had been bracing himself for disappointment and, for a moment, he could only stare at the other man. “I am deeply honored, my liege,” he managed, “more than I can say.”
“I do not want you to think that I chose you because you were willing to brave a winter crossing of the Alps on my behalf.” Richard’s mouth twitched and then he grinned. “Although I will admit it definitely did not hurt your chances.”
Hubert’s teeth worried his lower lip as ambition warred with conscience. The latter won, for the Archbishop of Canterbury was the head of England’s Church. “I need to know that you are sure about this, my liege, sure that I am the right man. I feel compelled to tell you that there are others better educated than I, and my Latin is not as fluent as I would wish.”
Richard started to joke about the advantages of not speaking Latin, stopping himself when he realized that Hubert was not responding with the modesty expected of a candidate for such a prestigious post, but was sincere. “I could find a hundred clerks who speak Latin as if it were their native tongue. I am not looking for a linguist, Hubert. I want a man of integrity, honor, courage, and intelligence—qualities you showed in abundance during our time in the Holy Land. I’ve known for months that you were the best choice, and had my voyage home been as uneventful as I’d hoped, you’d already have been consecrated by now.”
“Thank you, my lord king!” Hubert would have knelt had Richard not stopped him.
“I have no doubts whatsoever that you will be a superb archbishop. Now . . . the sooner you get to England, the sooner you embrace your destiny and the sooner I gain my freedom.” Richard smiled and then gave Hubert the same blessing he’d gotten from Hadmar von Kuenring. “Godspeed, my lord archbishop.”