Lionheart A Novel

Chapter 5

MARCH 1190

Nonancourt Castle, Normandy





In order to have a private conversation without fear of eavesdroppers, Eleanor had retreated to her bedchamber with her son. After dismissing her attendants, Richard joked that they ought to plug the keyhole with candle wax to thwart any French spies. Taking the wine cup he was holding out, Eleanor raised an eyebrow. “Is your news as incendiary as that?”

Richard had seated himself by the fire, stretching long legs toward its welcome warmth—for spring came later to Normandy than it did to their beloved Aquitaine—and regarded her enigmatically over the rim of his wine cup. “Let’s just say it is news that Philippe would pay dearly to have, news I do not intend to share with him when we meet at Dreux on Friday.”

“May I hope that you do intend to share it with me . . . eventually?” But Eleanor’s impatience was feigned, for she was accustomed to this sort of teasing. Henry had been a master of suspense, too. It struck her how alike her husband and son were, doubtless one of the main reasons why they’d so often been at odds.

“You know I was in Aquitaine last month. I spent several days in Gascony at La Réole, and during that time I had a very private meeting with trusted agents of the King of Navarre.”

“Did you now?” Eleanor sat back in her chair, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. They’d talked about this before, the possibility of a marital alliance with the Navarrese king, and were in agreement as to its potential. “I know you’ve raised the matter with Sancho in the past. I take it he is still interested.”

“Why would he not be? We still do have some issues to agree upon. So when I’m back in the south later this spring, I will meet again with his envoys, mayhap his son. What do they say about marriage contracts, Maman—that the Devil is in the details? But I am confident that we have an understanding, for it will be a good deal for both sides. I gain a valuable alliance, and God knows I’ll need a reliable ally to safeguard my southern borders from that whoreson in Toulouse. It is not by chance that Count Raimon is the only lord of note who has not taken the cross. He thinks this will be a rare opportunity to wreak havoc whilst I am occupied in the Holy Land. I’d wager he is already laying plans to invade Quercy even as we speak. But between Sancho and Alfonso,” he said, referring to the King of Aragon, a friend since boyhood, “I think they can keep him in check until I return.”

“Yes, it would be an advantageous match,” Eleanor agreed. Neither bothered to mention what Navarre was gaining from it, for that was obvious. Sancho’s daughter would become Queen of England, a lofty elevation for a young woman from a small Spanish kingdom. Sipping her wine contentedly, she studied her son, thinking he was taking pleasure, too, in outwitting the French king, for their friendship had been one of expediency, and once Henry had been defeated, the erstwhile allies were soon regarding each other with suspicion and hostility.

“Does . . .” She paused, prodding her memory to recall the girl’s name. “Does Berengaria speak French? The native tongue of Navarre is Romance, is it not?”

“When I visited her father’s court six years ago, her grasp of French was somewhat tenuous, but Sancho assured me that she has studied it diligently since then.” Richard’s smile was complacent. “The chance of a crown proved to be a powerful inducement. And she knows our lenga romana quite well, for it is spoken in many parts of Navarre.” He was pleased by that, for like Eleanor, he was fluent in both French and the language of Aquitaine. “I write most of my poetry in lenga romana and I’d prefer not to have to translate it for her.”

Eleanor was pleased, too, that Berengaria spoke the lenga romana, for that indicated she was well educated and familiar with the troubadour culture of the south. While compatibility was not a consideration in royal marriages, it did make marital harmony more likely, and Eleanor, like any mother, wanted her son to be content with the bride he chose. “When we’ve discussed this in the past, Richard, we spoke of political concerns, not personal ones. But after the marriage contract has been signed and the vows said, you’ll be sharing your life with a flesh-and-blood woman. What are you seeking in a wife?”

“Fertility,” he quipped, but then, seeing that she really wanted to know, he paused to give it some thought. “I’d want her to be sensible, not flighty or needy. Not overly pious, for no man wants to bed a nun. What else? A queen must be educated and worldly, of course . . .”

He almost added “loyal” but caught himself in time, for his mother’s loyalty to his father had been neither unconditional nor enduring. In his eyes, she could do no wrong. But he preferred a more conventional wife for himself, just as he did not want the tempest that had been his parents’ marriage. Civility seemed a much safer foundation for a royal union than wanton lust or love that burned so fiercely it became indistinguishable from hatred.

Almost as if she’d read his mind, Eleanor startled him by saying dryly, “The best marriages are based upon benign indifference or detached goodwill. That was the advice Harry’s father gave him ere we wed. Looking back, I suspect he may have been right.” She knew she would not have given up the passion, though, for she had not been born for safe harbors. “It sounds as if you have a realistic grasp of matrimony, Richard, which bodes well for you and your bride, and you seem satisfied with the girl herself. But I can only marvel at your powers of persuasion, even with a crown in the offing. Not many fathers would agree to wed a daughter to a man already betrothed to another woman for more than twenty years. How did you get Sancho to overlook your plight-troth to Philippe’s sister?”

“Sancho knows that marriage will never take place.”

“But does Philippe?”

“Well, not yet,” he conceded. “I cannot very well renounce the betrothal now, for Philippe would seize upon that as an excuse to forswear his holy vow. He never wanted to take the cross, was shamed into doing so by the Archbishop of Tyre’s fiery public sermon. And if Philippe does not go to Outremer, I dare not go myself.” Richard’s mouth twisted, as if the French king’s very name tasted foul. “As soon as I was gone, he’d overrun Normandy, making war upon my subjects instead of the Saracens, damn his craven soul to Hell.”

“I am not arguing with you, Richard. I can see the logic in waiting until Philippe has committed himself too fully to back out. But whether you reject Alys now or when you reach the Holy Land, Philippe is going to take it very badly. Not that he cares a whit for Alys herself. He cares a great deal, though, about his pride, and he will try to hold you to the betrothal, claiming that you have no legal grounds for breaking it.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of it, Maman,” Richard said, his eyes gleaming.

“Philippe has given me the grounds. Two years ago, when he was desperate to turn me against my father, he sent the Count of Flanders to me with a story likely to do that. You remember the meeting we had at Bonsmoulins?”

“All too well.” It was then that Richard had given Henry one last chance to acknowledge him publicly as his heir. When Henry balked, he’d unwittingly confirmed Richard’s darkest suspicions—that he meant to crown John—and Richard had reacted with a dramatic renunciation, kneeling and doing homage to Philippe for Aquitaine and Normandy and his “other fiefs on this side of the sea.” Henry had been stunned, and when she heard, Eleanor had wept, knowing there would be no going back. The bitter struggle between father and son could end only in defeat or death for one of them.

“Well, ere we met him at Bonsmoulins, I had a secret conclave with Philippe at Mantes. Philippe had been claiming for some time that I was in danger of being disinherited. But to make sure I had grievances enough to hold firm, he sent the Count of Flanders to me with a rather remarkable tale—that my father was swiving my betrothed.”

“Jesu!” But once the shock ebbed, she shook her head emphatically. “I do not believe that. Harry had his flaws. God alone knows how many women he bedded over the years. He was accused of any number of sins, some true, some not. But no one ever called him a fool, and seducing his son’s betrothed, the sister of the King of France, no less, would have been more than foolhardy. It would have been utter madness.”

Richard grinned, for his mother had unknowingly used almost exactly the same words to refute the accusation as his chancellor, Guillaume Longchamp, had once done. “I know,” he said. “I never gave it any credence, either. Philippe’s weakness is that he tends to hold his foes too cheaply. I suppose he thought I’d be so outraged that I’d not see the great gaps in the story.”

“Well, many men would have reacted like that. But not anyone who knew Harry. He would never have jeopardized so much for so little.”

Richard was amused that they were defending Henry on grounds of pragmatism, not morality. He doubted that a priest would approve of such a cynical argument, but it rang more true to him than any claims of virtue. “So you see,” he said, “Philippe has given me the key to unlock the chains binding me to Alys. I will be appalled that he’d expect me to wed a woman who’d lain with my father, truly appalled.”

Eleanor began to laugh, for what could be more satisfying than turning an enemy’s own weapon against him? Neither she nor Richard gave much thought to Alys, the innocent pawn, for when kingdoms were at stake, it was easy to justify almost any action in the name of a greater good.

Rising, Richard held out his hand. “I just wish you could be there to see Philippe’s face when I tell him, Maman. Now I want you to accompany me to the castle solar. I have made some changes in my plans to safeguard the governance of my realm whilst I am away, will reveal them at the great council meeting tomorrow. Since not all will be pleased, I thought it only fair to warn several of them beforehand, giving them time to come to terms with these changes. They are awaiting me now in the solar.”

Eleanor rose and took his arm, gratified that he always included her in matters of state, that he truly valued her opinions and her political instincts. She wondered occasionally if things might have been different had her husband only showed her the same trust and respect that her son did. But she also knew that the intimate bond she had with Richard was what Henry had desperately wanted, too, not understanding why the sons he’d so loved had become his enemies—and that was a regret she’d take to her grave, her awareness of the part she’d played in their family’s tragic disintegration. As they moved toward the door, she asked whom they’d be meeting and stopped in her tracks when Richard told her.

“Is that a jest? You’ve put your brothers and the Bishop of Durham and Longchamp together in one chamber and left them alone? Good Lord, Richard, you’d be hard pressed to find four men who loathe one another more than that lot does! Geoff will never forgive John for abandoning Harry as he lay dying, and John cannot abide him, either. Durham was adamantly opposed to Geoff’s elevation to the archbishopric of York, and they all despise your chancellor. We’re likely to find the solar knee-deep in blood.”

“I know. It will be even better than a bearbaiting.”

She eyed him dubiously, thinking that she’d never fully understand the male sense of humor. “But who is the bear and who are the hounds?”

“We’ll soon find out,” he said and opened the door.



GEOFFREY FITZ ROY considered himself blessed to have been the son of Henry Fitz Empress. He’d not been so lucky in the circumstances of his birth, for his mother had been one of Henry’s passing fancies, and even a royal bastard began life at a distinct disadvantage. Henry had been determined that Geoff would not suffer from the stigma of illegitimacy, though, and had sought a career in the Church for his eldest son, ignoring the obvious—that Geoff was utterly unsuited for the priesthood. He’d named Geoff to the bishopric of Lincoln when he was only twenty-one, much to Geoff’s dismay. Because he was under the canonical age for such an elevated post, Geoff had persuaded Henry to delay his ordination and years later, when the Pope demanded that he either accept consecration or resign, Geoff had chosen the latter, for he was much more at home on the battlefield than at the altar. He’d become his father’s chancellor then, fiercely loyal to Henry and bitterly resentful of the half-brothers who’d caused his sire so much grief.

But Henry had expressed a deathbed hope that Geoff be given the archbishopric of York, and Richard declared that he would carry out his father’s wishes. Knowing the ill will between Richard and Geoff, many people had been surprised, speculating that Richard must be feeling guilty for having gone to war against his father. Geoff was highly skeptical of that theory, convinced that none of his half-brothers were capable of remorse or regret. He was sure that Richard had forced him to take a priest’s vows because that would bar him from laying any claims to the English crown. While he did not doubt that he’d have made a good king, a better one than any of his faithless brothers, he’d known it would never come to pass. It was true that William the Bastard had claimed his father’s duchy of Normandy and then used it to launch a successful invasion of England. But that was well over a hundred years ago, and the Holy Church would no longer sanction the coronation of one born out of wedlock. Some churchmen did not think a bastard ought to be a bishop, either, and Geoff was one of them, for all the good it did him.

Shifting in his seat, Geoff glowered at the other inhabitants of Nonancourt’s solar, thinking he’d rather have been trapped in a badger den than here with this unholy trinity. Guillaume Longchamp had once been Geoff’s own clerk, but with a fine eye for the main chance, he was soon serving Richard, and he’d benefited lavishly once Richard became king. Now he and the Bishop of Durham were joint justiciars, set to rule England during Richard’s prolonged absence in Outremer, and Geoff thought only the Almighty’s Divine Mercy could save his homeland from utter ruination. With that prideful pair at the helm, they’d run the ship of state onto the rocks in no time at all.

Geoff did not trust Longchamp, but he had a greater grudge against Hugh de Puiset, the Bishop of Durham, for the latter had sabotaged his attempts to regain royal favor. After they’d clashed over the appointment of Hugh de Puiset’s nephew as treasurer of York, Richard had seized Geoff’s castles and Episcopal estates, and Geoff had to promise to pay two thousand pounds to get them back. But the Bishop of Durham would not relinquish custody of these manors, refusing to allow Geoff to collect their revenues, thus making it impossible for him to pay that large fine. Richard had then confiscated his estates again and increased the fine, brushing aside Geoff’s attempts to lay the blame at Hugh de Puiset’s door.

So Geoff would have freely conceded that he disliked Longchamp and loathed the Bishop of Durham. But even de Puiset’s treachery paled in comparison with the sins of Geoff’s half-brother John, the Count of Mortain, who’d betrayed his dying father, breaking Henry’s spirits and his heart in the last days of his life. Geoff’s gaze moved coldly now past the diminutive chancellor and the tall, elegant bishop, shooting daggers at the young man standing by the window.

John sensed Geoff’s eyes boring into his back, and his jaw muscles tightened, his fists clenching and unclenching as he sought to control his fury. He’d had enough of Geoff’s self-righteous censure, was bone-weary of being treated as if he bore the Mark of Cain. He’d done no more than countless other men had done, swimming away from a sinking ship. He’d never fought against his father as Hal, Geoffrey, and Richard had done. He was not the one who’d dragged Henry from his sickbed to make a humiliating surrender at Colombières; Richard and Philippe bore the blame for that. He’d been loyal to his sire almost to the last, which was more than his brothers could say. Yes, Geoff had been loyal, too, but what other choice had he? He was a king’s bastard, utterly dependent upon the man who’d sired him whilst rutting with a whore.

John could feel the heat rising in his face. It was so unfair. Yes, he’d made a secret peace with Richard and the French king, but he had not wanted it to be that way. He’d not forsaken his father until the waves were beginning to break over the deck. He was sure Henry would not have wanted them both to drown.

And in the weeks after his father’s death, it seemed as if he’d been vindicated, for he had been welcomed by Richard, shown a generosity that he’d not truly expected, for his brothers had usually treated him either with indifference or annoyance. Eleven, nine, and eight years younger than Hal, Richard, and Geoffrey, fifteen years younger than Geoff, he’d always felt like the foundling, the afterthought, John Lackland. He was finally given his just due, though, once Richard became king. He was wed at long last to a great heiress, Avisa of Gloucester, a marriage that his father had promised but never delivered. He was given vast estates in six English shires, lands with income worth four thousand pounds a year. He was someone of importance, no longer the insignificant little brother. He was the heir to the English throne.

But that triumphant flush had soon faded. Geoff was not the only one who scorned him for doing what any sensible man would have done. Most were not as outspoken as Geoff, but he could see it in their eyes—their silent disdain. Will Marshal, that Welsh whelp Morgan, Baldwin de Bethune, all those who’d stayed with his father till the last, daring to judge him. He would not defend himself, for he was a prince of the blood royal, mayhap one day a king, and kings were accountable only to the Almighty. But he could not brush aside their implied condemnation as he knew Richard would have done. Their disapproval shadowed his days and bad dreams disrupted his nights, for Henry came to him in those lonely hours before dawn, a mute, reproachful ghost haunting his sleep. John would wager the surety of his soul that Richard was never stalked by that unrelenting spirit, never troubled by vain regrets. Everything was always so easy for Richard.

No longer able to abide Geoff’s unspoken accusations, John swung around, staring defiantly at the older man. “If you have something to say, Geoff, say it then,” he challenged, a gauntlet the reluctant archbishop was quick to pick up.

“Right gladly,” he growled, rising to his formidable height, angry color staining his cheeks.

“It will serve for naught to squabble amongst ourselves,” the Bishop of Durham interceded smoothly. “My lord archbishop, my lord count. I realize that nerves are on the raw, that we have had disputes in the past that are not easy to put aside. But we owe it to the king to do so, for he will depend upon us to cooperate with one another, to govern in a spirit of harmony whilst he is overseas, fighting the godless infidels who’ve captured the holiest city in Christendom.”

As unlike as they were, a remarkably similar expression crossed the faces of the estranged brothers, the look of men marveling at such blatant, shameless sanctimony. Guillaume Longchamp stifled a smile, preferring to maintain the dignified bearing of one who was above the fray. He thought the Archbishop of York was a dangerous hothead and the Count of Mortain an even more dangerous adversary, for John had few if any scruples and a newly awakened appetite for power. But he reserved his greatest contempt for Hugh de Puiset. The Bishop of Durham was the epitome of all that Longchamp most despised—an arrogant, smug hypocrite, who’d traded upon his high birth, good looks, and glib tongue to advance himself in the Church and at the royal court.

Longchamp was Hugh’s opposite in all particulars, for he’d risen by merit alone, overcoming his modest family background, his small stature, and unprepossessing appearance, no easy task in a world in which people saw physical deformity as an outer manifestation of inner evil. He’d realized early in life that he was much more intelligent than most, and took pride in his intellectual abilities, burning to prove himself to all who’d dismissed him as a “lowborn cripple” or an “ugly dwarf.” Once he’d entered the Duke of Aquitaine’s service and rose rapidly in Richard’s favor, he was no longer treated with ridicule. His detractors became enemies, and he gloried in their hostility. The ambition he’d always kept hidden now came to the fore, and he dared to dream of what had once been unthinkable—a bishopric. And indeed, when Richard became king, he rewarded Longchamp with the bishopric of Ely and the chancellorship. In turn, Longchamp rewarded Richard with the sort of loyalty that was beyond value, almost spiritual in its selfless intensity, rooted as much in Richard’s acceptance of his physical flaws as in the tangible benefits of royal favor.

Longchamp’s ambitions were no longer earthbound, soared higher and higher with each elevation: chancellor, bishop, and then justiciar. He’d even begun to think of the pinnacle of Church power. The Archbishop of Canterbury was going to the Holy Land, too, and he was not a young man. A vacancy might well occur in the next year or two, and what would be more natural than that the king should look to the one man he knew he could trust.

But what Longchamp’s enemies did not understand was that he was also a man of piety. He was not a worldly prince of the Church like the Bishop of Durham, who lived as lavishly as any king, claimed an earldom, and flaunted a mistress by whom he’d had at least four children. Longchamp was offended by such a blatant disregard for a priest’s holy vows, and he meant to punish Hugh de Puiset for his carnal sins as well as for his political machinations and unabashed greed. Looking now at the bishop, so graceful and urbane and haughty, Longchamp smiled to himself, sure that a day of reckoning was coming.

They all jumped to their feet then as the door opened and the king and his mother swept into the chamber; Richard could no more make an unobtrusive entrance than he could have understood his brother John’s crippling insecurities. “I trust you’ve been able to entertain yourselves whilst I was delayed,” he said blandly, giving himself away by the amused glint in his eyes.

After they’d all greeted Eleanor, Richard wasted no time getting to the heart of the meeting. “Tomorrow I will be announcing to the great council that I have decided to change my original arrangements for governing the realm whilst I am away. Instead of acting as co-justiciars, you, my lord,” he said to the Bishop of Durham, “will be justiciar north of the River Humber, and my chancellor will act as justiciar for the rest of England.”

Hugh de Puiset drew a sharp breath, then swung around to glare accusingly at Longchamp. The chancellor had not yet mastered the art of inscrutability, and one glance told Hugh that his suspicions were right; Longchamp had known this was coming. It was an easy step from that to the next—that he had planted this noxious seed and then watered it till it took root in Richard’s mind. “My lord king, surely you do not doubt my loyalty? I’ve had far more experience than the Bishop of Ely, know the barons of the kingdom as he does not—”

“The decision has been made, my lord bishop,” Richard interrupted. “I am not disrespecting you, merely doing what is best for England.” Hugh would have continued his protest, but Richard was already turning his attention upon his brother Geoff.

“I do not have the money to pay that fine,” Geoff said morosely before Richard could speak.

“That can be discussed later. What I’ve come to tell you now is that I will require you to swear a solemn oath that you will not set foot in England for the next three years.” Geoff’s mouth dropped open, and then his eyes flashed. Richard gave him no chance to object, though. “I will be requiring the same oath from you, Johnny,” he told John, whose response was more guarded than Geoff’s. He stiffened, but said nothing, slanting his gaze from Richard to Eleanor, back to Richard again.

Richard let the silence stretch out, smothering any embers of rebellion, and then got to his feet. “I shall see you at the great council tomorrow,” he said, and after beckoning to his chancellor, he kissed his mother on the cheek and sauntered out, Longchamp hurrying to catch up. Geoff was the next to go, fuming helplessly. The Bishop of Durham would have lingered to argue his case with Eleanor, but she was not receptive and he soon departed, too, followed by John.

Welcoming this rare chance to be alone, Eleanor sat down in the window-seat. She approved of Richard’s move to circumscribe the Bishop of Durham’s authority, for he’d never impressed her, a courtier cloaked in the garb of a cleric. But there were risks, too, in the road Richard had chosen. Longchamp was now chancellor and chief justiciar, in possession of the king’s great seal and the Tower of London. If Richard’s request to make him a papal legate was granted by the Holy Father, he’d have a formidable arsenal of weapons, both religious and secular. Was it wise to give any one man that much power?

A soft knock interrupted her musings. “Enter,” she said with a sigh; she should have known her solitude would be fleeting. To her surprise, it was John. “May I speak with you, Madame?” he asked formally. “It is a matter of importance.”

“Come in, John.” When she gestured toward the window-seat, he declined with a quick shake of his head, keeping some distance between them by leaning against the table. Of all her children, he alone had inherited her coloring, dark hair and hazel eyes. He did not speak immediately and she regarded him pensively. How could she feel so detached from a child of her womb, her flesh-and-blood?

She supposed it was not truly so surprising, though, for he’d been six when she’d been captured and turned over to her wrathful husband. She had not been denied access to her daughter Joanna and eventually Henry had relented, allowing her older sons to visit her, too. But she’d not seen John again until he was twelve and then rarely, even after Henry had dramatically eased the terms of her confinement. He’d been Henry’s, never hers. As she gazed into the greenish-gold eyes so like her own, a memory flickered of an afternoon soon after Hal’s death. She’d confessed to Geoffrey that she did not really know John, and Geoffrey had proven once again that he was the family seer, predicting that Henry did not really know John, either.

“Mother . . . I fear that Richard may be making a mistake in investing so much royal authority in his chancellor.”

“Oh? Do you have reason to doubt Longchamp’s loyalty?”

“No, I do not. But loyalty is not the only consideration. There are men who function quite well as second in command, yet do not thrive when given absolute authority, and it can be argued that Longchamp will be acting as a de facto king with Richard away in the Holy Land for who knows how long. Especially if he is named a papal legate, as the rumors go.”

Eleanor was surprised that he knew about the papal legateship, for that was not common knowledge. But she was intrigued that John was showing such interest in political matters. He was twenty-three now. At that age, their eldest son had cared only for tournaments. Her face shadowed, for memories of Hal were always painful, their beautiful golden boy who’d had more charm than the law ought to allow and barely a brain in his head.

“I do not think Longchamp will be able to meet Richard’s expectations,” John said, choosing his words with care. “Our English barons are likely to balk at taking commands from a man of obscure birth. Yes, I know,” he said when Eleanor started to speak. “He is not the grandson of a peasant, as the Bishop of Coventry claims. But neither is he highborn, not like the men he must rule over. Mayhap if he were more tactful . . . but his arrogance beggars belief. He makes enemies easily.”

“So what are you asking of me, John? You want me to convince Richard not to leave the government in Longchamp’s hands? He’d not heed me.”

“I know. But he might listen to you if you argued against exiling me for three years.”

“I see,” she said noncommittally, and John moved closer, trying to read her face without success.

“I ought to be there, Mother. My presence might temper Longchamp’s more overweening inclinations. And then, too . . .” John paused, meeting his mother’s gaze steadily. “If evil befalls Richard in the Holy Land, would you want me in England, able to take control of the realm? Or hundreds of miles away in Normandy or Anjou?”

He knew he’d gambled with such blunt talk, but he saw that he’d won when she smiled ever so faintly. “I will give it some thought,” she said, and then, “I think I am beginning to see what Harry saw in you, John.” And when John flinched, that told her, too, much about this stranger, her son.