In the Shadow of Midnight (15 page)

The Wolf remained motionless but for a brief glance at Alaric.

The earl laid his hands flat on the table, splaying the thick, blunt-tipped fingers. “I loved John’s father, Henry Secund. I rode by his side for nigh on two score years, and even though his sons conspired against him time and again, I grudgingly gave him my blood oath to stand by the throne and to defend the crown with my last breath.

“Richard was a blunderer. A magnificent blunderer, but a fool nonetheless. His God and his England were the sword, and so long as he could wield it in bloody combat, he considered himself a good king and defender of the faith.
To England itself, while he amused himself slashing at the throats of the Saracens, he gave John—an open sore, worse than any fistula from any plague—and in the name of safekeeping the throne in Richard’s absence, John stripped England to the bone and bled every last coin from those who could afford it least. He maimed and crippled her with cruelty, greed, and corruption. When Richard fell at Chalus, John—instead of spreading balm on any wounds he may have made during his vicious reign as regent—set about exacting his revenge on those who had dared to challenge his authority. You yourself lost lands and holdings of no small value.”

“I did not suffer for the loss,” Randwulf said warily.

“Nevertheless, the people have. Your people. Vassals and serfs who were given no choice, who had no say in who would own the land, and in turn, own their lives. They, like the rest of England’s commonry, have come to accept, through trials of fire and sword, that cruelty, hunger, and poverty are forever to be their lot in life.”

Randwulf shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “I had no idea you harboured such love of the common folk.”

“And I had no idea you harboured such disdain. Nor would I ever have guessed it from the well-fed bellies we passed on the roads leading through Amboise.”

“Are you suggesting I could save all mankind by reclaiming Bloodmoor Keep?”

The earl shook his head grimly. “No. Bloodmoor … nay, all of England is well beyond the redemption of a single man, I fear. And will be so long as this … this flatulent Softsword sits on the throne.”

“We do hear he has become quite full of himself,” Sparrow chuckled. “Painfully so at times.”

Pembroke’s blue eyes creased at the corners for a brief moment. “He has grown so sour now, the gasses pop and wheeze out of him almost continually. Not long ago, he bent over too quickly—to pick up a copper groat, the story goes— and such a clap of thunder was heard to break from his arse, the guards came to his chamber at a run. ‘Twas not a clean clap either, for he had to hasten away to change into fresh braies.”

The men’s laughter was strained, but Sparrow ho-hoed with such belly-mirth, he tumbled backward off his bench.

“Aye, ’tis a sad and sorry state to laugh at your own king,” the earl continued with a sigh. “A king who sits farting and counting his plundered coins while a French panderer steals the very lands that birthed our ancestors. Certes, he is the meanest king I have ever served. He has turned nearly every baron in England against him by misusing his power, misusing his position. He has put himself above the law, and, if he was indeed responsible for ordering Arthur’s death, he has also put himself above God. Quite simply said: I hate the man. My fingers ache to squeeze around his throat whenever I am in his presence. I know he is my king and I have forsworn to serve him, but … ah, Jesu, Jesu … if I had half a measure more courage, I would gladly send him on his way to hell.”

No one moved. No one drew a breath. Was the Marshal of England about to appeal to one of them to assassinate the king?

Pembroke noted the silence and his piercing blue eyes passed over each taut face in turn. “Rest easy, friends. I have not come to ask of you what I cannot do myself. But I have come to put forth this to you: we must begin to take measures to limit the throne’s power. As you must already know, Poitou, Anjou, Maine, and Brittany are seething with revolt, burning and pillaging everything tainted by the king’s corruption. The barons in England watch and wait. They meet by twos and threes and know wherein the blame for all of this dissent lays, yet short of calling for a civil war, none are in a strong enough position
on their own
to lead a campaign against John Plantagenet. Randwulf—you spoke more wisely than you knew when you cursed the impetuousness of Arthur of Brittany. Had he bided his time, had he not thrown his lot in with Philip of France, had he but
waited
and built up his strength and support among the barons who, in the days ahead,
might well have been willing to throw their lot behind an alternative to John’s greed and treachery
… well …” He sighed and the huge, calloused hands came together, the fingers locking so as not to betray the tremors of anger and impotence that shook them.

“Were you not the one who said the barons of England would never favour a boy over a man? Were you not the one who said it was better to take the devil we knew than the princeling we knew not?”

William glared at Randwulf. “Walter de Coutances, our wise and vainglorious Archbishop of Rouen, predicted I would rue the day I threw the lot of England’s nobility behind John’s claim to the throne. He would also be crowing with delight to hear me decry that decision now.”

“I am hardly crowing,” the Wolf said. “But since the boy is more than likely dead, it does little good to talk of what might have been or could have been had Arthur lived.”

“Where the interests of England are concerned, men will always talk,” William advised solemnly. “Most especially when there is another possibility to talk about.”

Alaric whistled softly under his breath, having already surmised where the discussion was leading. But it was Eduard who stiffened with a complete look of horror on his face.

“The Princess Eleanor? You would have Arthur’s sister call England to a civil war?”

“Were apples apples and oranges oranges, Eleanor’s claim does precede her uncle John’s,” William pointed out. “And although he beds his nubile young wife day in and day out, he is as yet without a legitimate heir of his own. If he were to die tomorrow of gout and flatulence, Eleanor would succeed him as queen of England.”

“With or without his untimely demise,” the Wolf asked, “are you suggesting the barons would hold with putting another woman on the throne of England? After the hell they went through with Matilda?”

“No. They most certainly would not trust her to rule alone. But if she were to marry
wisely
, and with a man the barons elected themselves, a man who could be trusted to place the welfare of England before all else … then some might see a benefit in making her queen. Let me put the question to you: Would Eleanor of Brittany be able to unite the barons of England?”

“She is Geoffrey’s daughter, Henry Secund’s granddaughter,” Randwulf said with careful consideration. “She has the charm and wit of the one, the sense of justice of the other. Eduard—?”

“She is honest and God-fearing,” said the darkly handsome knight. “Her beauty lights a room when she enters and leaves a terrible sense of loss when she departs. She is wise and brave, loyal beyond call—”

“And obviously possesses the knack of winning devotion,” William interrupted with a smile.

“Have you any candidates in mind for her consort?” Alaric asked.

“There are several,” William admitted, betraying the fact that the matter had been much discussed already. “Each with his own merits, each capable of gaining and holding the respect of the barons … and more importantly, their armies.”

“Forgive my lack of wit this night,” said Randwulf, “but it still does not explain why you have brought this meal to my table. I have no holdings to speak of, no vast army in England to draw upon, no influence there at all except with the royal executioner.”

“Your modesty does you no justice. Moreover, England is not the crucible—Normandy is. If the pennants of the Black Wolf were not firmly planted on the banks of the Loire, how long do you think it would take Philip to bring his armies across? I know, after standing in the Frenchman’s court and counting the number of familiar faces in the audience, the deals have already been cut with half the barony of Brittany, Maine, and Anjou. In exchange for retaining their lands and titles, none will lift a lance against Philip’s forces when he attempts to make Normandy part of France. Only you and your absolute devotion to the dowager stand in his way. You are Aquitaine’s champion. You carry her pennant above your own in battle. You have proven your loyalty time and time again; she and her granddaughter both trust you. More importantly, they would listen to you with an open mind.”

Under different circumstances, the Wolf might have laughed out loud, for the cobwebs had finally been blown off his senses and he knew why the earl had come to Amboise.
The battles, verbal and physical, that Queen Eleanor and her husband Henry II had engaged in were the stuff of legends. Henry had even kept her under lock and key for seventeen years fearing she would lead her sons in open revolt against him. There had been no love lost between Eleanor and the blustery William either, and upon Henry’s death, she had heaped double the scorn on Pembroke, going so far as to rail her son Richard in public for making the old warrior Marshal of England.

Yet the Wolf was not laughing. He was not even smiling. He was, if anything, having difficulty controlling his fury.

“You would have me intercede on your behalf and convince the princess to play the cat’s paw to your political maneuverings, even though she has spent most of her life being used and manipulated like a piece on a chessboard?”

“You would prefer to let John decide her fate?”

A second, frozen hush descended over the group and this time it was Sparrow who broke the shocked silence.

“Softsword has not dared to lay a hand on our Little Pearl, has he?”

The earl’s eyes turned into chips of blue ice. “He dared to take her prisoner with her brother at Mirebeau, and he has dared to keep her confined in a tower room at Rouen all these months. Now, if the eyes I have watching those tower rooms are to be believed, he has dared to move her to Cherbourg, and from there, to transport her by ship to England.”

“To
England!”
Eduard surged forward, the scar on his face turning a livid white with rage. “The bastard has moved her to England?”

William nodded. “John himself is getting ready to bolt. He has no men, no money, no army. He knew before he sent me on this fool’s errand to see Philip that the French would never agree to a peaceful compromise, and he knows, once he shows the barons of Brittany and the Aquitaine how little he is prepared to risk in order to hold their loyalty, the fleur-de-lys will fly from every battlement west of the Seine. Normandy will be under French rule by the spring and there is nothing
anyone can do to prevent it once John removes himself across the Channel.”

“And the Princess Eleanor?”

Pembroke was silent a moment. “Because of Arthur, because he once renounced his claim in supposed good faith only to reappear some months later at the head of an army … Eleanor could pledge her oath of fealty from the highest rampart in the land, she could shout it before the largest court assembled, and John would not be inclined to believe her. As long as she is alive, there is another whose claim to the throne precedes his own. And as long as she is alive, he knows there will be men gathering in dark rooms to speak of civil war.”

“The king would not dare harm her,” Eduard declared evenly. “Every knight in the realm would turn their backs on him. He would be spitting in the eye of chivalry itself, and no amount of guilty penance, no weight of holy relics strung about his scrawny neck, would redeem him.”

“You place more faith in his concern over public opinion than I do,” Pembroke remarked. “In any case, she is a danger to him and he would not contemplate returning to England without her. As his prisoner or his hostage—call it what you will—the Pearl of Brittany will never be allowed to walk free again, not so long as John sits upon the throne.”

Eduard, standing in the silence and shadows, steeped in quiet fury. He raised a hand unselfconsciously and pressed it over his breast, feeling the bite of the tiny gold ring. Eleanor had given it to him the day he had won his spurs; the same day he had vowed, with drops of his own blood, to perform all deeds of bravery and honour in her name, and to serve and protect her unto the death as her champion.

He had not trusted John’s motives from the outset and had wanted to go, by himself if necessary, to bring her away from Mirebeau. But his father and the dowager had both worked to cool his temper. Eleanor herself had assured him she was being treated well and was quite certain her uncle meant her no harm. At the time, she had also been quite certain Arthur would be set free again, and had even gone willingly to Rouen in the hope of being closer to him.
As recently as a fortnight ago, she had held hope Arthur was somewhere in the castle donjons being kept in isolation and darkness until his Angevin stubbornness could be broken.

If John had given the order for Eleanor to be moved to England, she must be aware by now that the rumours of her brother’s death were founded in truth. She would be frightened. Alone. She would know she could no longer trust her uncle’s promises and assurances.

William the Marshal was watching Eduard’s face closely. “I would hasten to add that if any overt force was brought to bear against the king to win her release, it would invite upon her the same fate her poor brother suffered. Nay, even the
threat
of force would turn John’s hand against her.”

Eduard met the marshal’s eye. “Do you suggest we do nothing to correct this travesty?”

“I suggest we do the only thing we can do.” William drew a breath through his teeth and looked at each man in turn. “I suggest we steal her back.”

“Steal her back?” Alaric exclaimed.

“Aye. And the sooner the better. The farther from Brittany she is taken, the deeper into John’s domain she travels, the less likelihood there will be of wresting her from the king’s grasp.”