For the King's Favor (29 page)

Roger opened his hands, palm outwards. “He will say Richard has been given false advice and that he only has Richard’s good at heart.”

“What heart?” William said with an eloquent look. “I know the King well. He is neither naive nor trusting, but he has his weaknesses like all of us, and Longchamp is one.”

“The Chancellor is good at putting over schemes and plans for making money,” Roger replied. “He promises the King wealth and power, but it’s an illusion—like the tricks I play with my son, making a penny appear and disappear between my fingers. Richard needs money, so Longchamp fills his mind with visions of overflowing treasure chests and promises he will make them come true. If Longchamp had not let ownership of the royal seal go to his head, he might yet be in office. I suspect the King wrote that letter for de Coutances with the utmost reluctance.”

William considered the matter, then nodded. “Mayhap you are right, but now we have to decide what to do.”

Roger sighed. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Even if you do have a letter from the King granting you authority to depose the Bishop of Ely, it has to be done in the open and in such a manner that others do not see it as a mandate to snatch power for their own ends.” He did not have to mention Count John.

William gave him a bleak smile. “Indeed it is difficult, but I hope that with men of balance pulling on both sides of the rope, we can hold the ship steady at its moorings.”

Raising a doubtful eyebrow, Roger went to the flagon standing on a chest. “Wine?”

“Why not?” William hooked up the stool near the bedside and sat down on it. “I see you have a new helm.” He nodded at Roger’s acquisition gleaming near the flagon.

Roger handed him a filled cup. “I hope not to wear it often. Let it decorate my chamber, not the battlefield.”

A grin broke across William’s face. “I am afraid to say that last time I left my helm in my chamber, my heir used it as a piss-pot.”

There hadn’t been much opportunity for mirth of late, and William’s comment lightened the moment. “I suppose it is a better use than warfare,” Roger chuckled. “How is your lady wife?”

“Well but looking forward to the end of her confinement. The child is due any day.” A brief moment of irritation showed on William’s face. “If not for Longchamp, I’d be with her at Caversham now. What of your own family my lord?”

Roger turned his cup in his hand. “They are well from what I see of them. My eldest son is nigh on nine years old.” He grimaced and thought that given half of that span again, Hugh would be almost a man. Time passed at an alarming pace.

“And Framlingham?” William enquired. “How goes that?”

Roger’s smile was wry. “It will be a while in the building. Ida sees more of it than I do and complains of the dust and the noise, but it will be worth it when it is done. Each turret will give covering shots to its neighbour and have the capacity to be isolated, so if one should fall, the rest will still remain intact—and of course their positioning will make a killing ground of the bailey should it become necessary.”

A gleam of enthusiasm entered William’s eyes and the talk turned to military defences. William spoke of the castles he had seen in the Holy Land and how he had masons constructing two new round towers at Striguil and had commissioned new doors for the main gate. That topic of conversation pleasantly explored, the men drank in silence before William returned to business.

“We both know the chancellor is going to be deposed, but, as you say, there is a balance to keep. Even if Longchamp’s power is curtailed, he will still be entitled to the castles the King gave him before he left, and they are strategic.” He paused then said slowly, “Dover, Cambridge, and Hereford. All will require castellans who are impartial and not open to bribes.” He looked at Roger. “Would you consider being one of those castellans—or at least be responsible for the custody? You have acted in the Lord Chancellor’s service against your will, but with fairness and you have a reputation for balance.”

Roger felt a spark of excitement but kept an impassive profile. “Is this your own thought, or in consultation with the others?”

“In consultation, naturally. The Archbishop of Rouen feels you would be ideal for one of the posts and everyone agrees. Hereford was mooted if you desire to take on its administration.”

Roger pinched his upper lip and took his time to ponder. The Marshal was a trusted friend and they had much in common. Roger had had to work hard for advancement at court in the wake of his father’s treachery. William too had climbed fortune’s ladder in royal service and whatever he was now had been earned through his own endeavour. Nevertheless, there were politics to consider here too. Friendship and mutual interest might unite him and William, but there was Richard’s attachment to Longchamp to be taken into account. Even if Richard had been forced to write a letter deposing his chancellor of power and appointing the Archbishop of Rouen in his place, that did not mean Longchamp was finished for ever. “I am willing,” he said eventually, “but only within the course of the law. If Longchamp does not comply with the terms of the letter, I will gladly fulfil the duty, but in the name of King Richard.”

“Naturally,” William said, his tone grave but pleased. “It would relieve us of a burden, knowing you had such a command.” He set down his cup and rose to his feet. “I would not ask you to compromise your honour, but if we have your willingness, it will make for a smoother path—and, God knows, we have need of that.”

Bidding Roger goodnight, William left for his own bed. Roger poured himself another half-cup of wine and, leaning against the bolsters, considered the day’s happenings and what had been said. He glanced at his new helmet and smiled, remembering the Marshal’s comment about the piss-pot, but after that, his mouth straightened and his eyes grew sombre as he thought of the offer of Hereford. He had meant what he said. He intended to hold it for Richard alone and not be swayed by pressure from either side—and there would be pressure, he knew, both the benign and the not so benign. However, he was accustomed to standing his ground. He had been a long time in the training—and what else for if not this? There would be advantages to holding Hereford, both of prestige and revenue. Responsibility too, and new challenges to broaden his scope.

Unbidden, as he prepared to sleep, the image of his children came to his mind. Hugh at his lessons, making artistic capitals with his quill, Marie with her apricot hair and necklace of blue glass beads, Marguerite with a bonnet tied under her chin. But the littlest ones, William and Ralph, were anonymous babies in his vision. Asked to pick them out in a room, he wouldn’t have known them. There was a price to pay. There was always a price to pay. No road was ever free of a toll for passage.

His bladder woke him in the middle of the night and Roger blearily lit the candle and fumbled out the piss-pot. He was thirsty again but he and the Marshal had emptied the wine jug. Throwing on his cloak, he stirred awake his chamber attendant Godfrey, and bade him fetch watered wine. As the young man blearily opened the door, he came face to face with a startled William de Braose who was in the act of walking past.

Standing behind his servant, Roger stared. So did the lord of Bramber, before a sardonic smile parted his lips. “Well met, my lord Earl,” he said and drew himself up so that his stance was imposing and dominant. Roger refused to be intimidated. An ox was bigger than a ploughman, but he knew who held the whip.

“I am not so certain about that,” Roger replied. “What are you doing here when you should be at Windsor with the chancellor?”

De Braose ran his tongue over his front teeth, lips closed. “I am here at the chancellor’s behest.”

Roger’s spine prickled. “What’s he plotting now?”

De Braose gave Roger a long, assessing look. “My message is for the Count of Mortain alone.”

“In the stealth of the night?”

De Braose smiled again. “You know John. Such things please him and make him amenable. If the negotiations bear fruit, you will learn of them soon enough. I bid you good even.” Bowing, he swept on his way.

Roger frowned after him. Why would de Braose be bringing messages to John from Longchamp in the middle of the night? What was being muttered in the darkness that could not be openly said in daylight?

“When you’ve fetched the wine,” he said to Godfrey, “go and rouse the Archbishop of Rouen and the justiciars and request a meeting. Tell them I would speak with them on a matter of importance.”

***

John entered the chamber belonging to Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, the senior justiciar. Roger, who had been regaling a somewhat bleary gathering of clerics and nobles with the news about de Braose’s clandestine visit, glanced towards John and immediately felt uneasy. The Count of Mortain had the look of a very well-fed cat and Roger could almost imagine him cleaning cream from his whiskers on the edge of a satisfied paw.

“What’s all this, my lords?” John purred. “A conspiracy?” He turned a look of gleaming amusement on Roger.

“You tell me, sire,” replied Walter of Coutances, pushing back the loose sleeves of his robe. “I understand you have received a visit from my lord de Braose tonight.”

John continued to smile and approached the trestle around which the men were gathered. “Indeed yes,” he said. “In secret and of a personal nature—as the Earl of Norfolk will doubtless have told you.” He flashed Roger a triumphant smirk.

“Where is de Braose now?” asked Hugh Nonant, Bishop of Coventry.

“On his way back to Windsor with my reply,” John said pleasantly. “There was no point in him staying.”

“Would you care to enlighten us as to the nature of the visit?” De Coutances extended his hand in invitation.

“By all means.” John leaned against the trestle, and then stared around the gathering, fixing each man with a strong look before moving on to the next. “Chancellor Longchamp wondered if I was interested in joining forces with him and making a stand against the justiciars and their allies. He was prepared to offer me Hereford Castle as surety, five hundred marks, and a chest of gold plate.”

There was a shocked silence. Roger flushed at the mention of Hereford Castle and deliberately avoided the gaze of the Marshal and de Coutances. This was indeed murky water and he felt soiled to be dabbling in it.

“Of course,” John said nonchalantly, “I had to refuse. I may be ambitious, but I am no fool. Show me anyone who would want to climb into a bed with the Bishop of Ely from choice—other than my absent brother. It is disgraceful that the chancellor should try to subvert the course of justice in this way.”

Roger raised an eyebrow, knowing full well John didn’t consider it disgraceful at all. He just had the good sense to know this particular ploy was hotter than an iron bar freshly drawn from the coals of a blacksmith’s forge. By claiming the moral high ground, John had gained a fine advantage over his rival. It did show, however, that Longchamp was desperate.

“Indeed my lord, it is,” de Coutances said smoothly, “and you were wise to resist the bribes of the chancellor. Be assured we will deal with the matter at our meeting on the morrow.”

John inclined his head. “I am sure you will,” he said, “remembering of course that I could have been halfway to Windsor by now with my troops.”

De Coutances returned John a benign smile. “But you said yourself, my lord: you are not a fool.”

***

In the morning, the party from Reading set out to the rearranged meeting point near Windsor while their baggage train turned for Staines, where they intended to spend the night.

John rode up to join Roger as they jogged along. “My lord Bigod, I have not spoken to you alone about the bribe Longchamp offered me last night.”

Roger had pulled his hat brim low so that there was no chance of it blowing off in the stiff autumn wind. He was glad of that camouflage now. “Why should you need to speak to me alone, sire? Let the will of the justiciars be the will of all.”

John flashed his teeth. “I don’t know about you, but I am never offended when propositions are put to me, even if, regretfully, I cannot accept them. The chancellor must be desperate, don’t you think?”

“He has made some errors of judgement,” Roger said. “And he has gone against the law.” He looked straight ahead between his mount’s pricked ears. “But yes, to offer money to a man he has been intent on dominating, he must indeed be feeling the wall against his spine.”

John’s smile deepened. “They say every man has his price, my lord. I wonder what yours is.”

Roger heard the teasing note in John’s voice, but there was speculation behind it and a genuine, ruthless curiosity. “My lord, I suspect both you and the chancellor would beggar yourselves finding out.” He chose not to think about Hereford Castle.

John gave a dark chuckle. “Is that so? Well, perhaps the price you have paid to my brother has already beggared you—and may break you yet.”

“Then by all means let us be ragged together,” Roger retorted, then suddenly drew rein for a scout was pounding up the road towards them on a sweating courser.

“Ah,” John said silkily. “News of the illustrious chancellor I suspect. His bowels obviously continue weak at the notion of confronting those he has wronged.”

The scout made obeisance to the gathering and announced that Chancellor Longchamp had indeed set out again to the meeting, “but then he turned round as if chased by the devil’s breath, and now he’s taken the same road as the baggage carts at a pace that’s going to founder his horse.”

The men stared at each other in bewilderment. There were rumblings to the effect that Longchamp’s wits had finally deserted him.

“Why is he chasing our baggage carts?” John demanded on a rising note of incredulity. “I know he is avaricious, but surely he is not planning to seize our pots and pans and bed coverings?”

“Perhaps he mistook the baggage train for us and thinks we are riding to seize control of London,” Roger suggested because it seemed to him the only rational explanation for such lunatic behaviour. Whoever controlled London controlled the most vital city in England.

“What do we do now?” grumbled Bishop Reginald of Bath. “Retire to Reading again? I swear I am beginning to feel seasick with all this parading hither and yon.”