Authors: Norah Lofts
The archer dropped down on his knees and kissed Richard’s idly swinging foot, stammering incoherently. Richard gave him a little gentle push with his toe and bade him good night again. The archer got up, jumped down from the dais and was striding away, a man much relieved in his mind, when Richard called after him:
‘Hi, you. You, the eater of infidels! What
did
you eat today?’
‘I didn’t. Some of them got some green stuff in the market. But I’d opened my silly big mouth and was bid wait on you, my lord.’
‘Dickon,’ Richard shouted, ‘take and feed this good fellow. Give him the best we have. And then bring us some wine. Give us the best of that too. Well, there now, Mother, I’ve done. No, by the living God, I haven’t. There’s a despatch from England, Alwyne brought it just as Escel came in with the new mangonel. He was dead on his feet and I sent him away to sleep. Ah, here it is. Urgent, he said, and bad news.’ He jerked his head like a horse tormented by flies. ‘We’ll have our wine first and then read it.’ He looked at me and smiled. ‘I’m glad to see you, Mother. You managed things well in Navarre. Smooth as oil. I’m very grateful to you.’ There was a barely perceptible hesitation. ‘And how is the princess?’
Suppose I said: Madly in love with you and only just restrained from bashing her head against a wall because you won’t see her? There were men who would be pleased and flattered—but little men, the sort who needed a woman’s adulation to bolster up their self-esteem.
‘As I told you, very beautiful and of a most agreeable nature. Really, Richard, a girl in a thousand; and better than you deserve… You should have come to supper, you know. Berengaria and Joanna are eager for the sight of you.’
But even while I was saying this my eyes and my thoughts were on that despatch from England. Urgent and bad. What had gone wrong? Alwyne I remembered. He had a manor at Pant Glas in Shropshire, on the border of Wales; and twenty years ago he had repelled a Welsh raiding party with such ferocity and such success that Henry had called him to Westminster and presented him with a gold cup. Later he had married a younger sister of Rosamonde Clifford. So he was, by marriage, uncle to Geoffrey of York. And his urgent bad news might be something trivial and local about the Welsh border—or it might be from Geoffrey and urgent and bad indeed.
Richard put down his wine cup and said, ‘Well, this can’t be deferred any longer.’ He broke the seal, shifted so that the light fell onto the page and read silently for what seemed a long time. Then he said not uncheerfully, ‘Ha-ha-ha. Who advised me to get Geoffrey Whoreson back? Who was quite certain that he’d keep everybody in order? God’s eyeballs, you’d have done better yourself. And nobody could have done worse!’ He read on and presently gave a great snort. ‘Whose flag, do you think, flies over my keep at Windsor at this moment?’
‘Not Geoffrey’s?’ I faltered. A sick feeling of shame and remorse came over me. I had advised—more, I had pressed Richard to appoint Geoffrey; I had been so sure of his ability and his integrity. Why had I been? What dementia had led me to trust the Rose Bitch’s whelp! She had set her cap at being Queen; what more likely than that her son, with his half-royal blood, should covet the throne while its rightful owner dressed sores on pack mules? I should have known!
‘Richard, tell me,’ I exclaimed in agony, unable to bear the suspense any longer.
‘On your life, no! It’s better than that! Geoffrey sent me this letter. It’s my Master Longchamp who sets up to be King in my absence. Master Longchamp’s flag flies over Windsor!’
‘That ferret,’ I said, astonished; and at the same time a little ashamed of the relief I knew. Longchamp was never my candidate; I’d been against leaving him in authority from the first! I couldn’t be blamed for his behaviour, though it was the measure of the failure of the man I had sponsored.
‘Three bonny fellows I left in charge,’ Richard said. ‘They let him get the upper hand and what do they do about it? Send me a letter. As though I had nothing else to do. Castrated asses!’ He resumed his reading and then thrust the letter under my nose. ‘Here, read for yourself.’
I read that Longchamp had summarily dismissed almost everyone whom Richard had left in office and who was capable of being dismissed, replacing them with creatures of his own, mainly his relatives or relatives of his numerous mistresses. That he had set up a private army of his own with its own uniform. That he had tampered with the coinage. That he never went abroad without an escort of fifteen hundred armed men. That he signed orders with his private seal, as though despising the Great Seal of England. That he sought out occasions to insult and diminish all of rank or standing, save only Prince John who, although he spoke of the chancellor with hatred and contempt out of his presence, was much in his company and often of one mind with him.
‘Well?’ Richard said as I finished reading and stared with dismay into his face.
‘This is terrible,’ I said. ‘The little rat, born in a ditch and reared on a dunghill! Ruler of England. Richard, you must have left him enormous powers.’
‘I left him in power to raise money for me. His devices for getting money were brilliantly conceived and executed. He has more brains in his little finger than Geoffrey and Hugh have in both their great skulls. And it’s a pity I must lose his services because I have no man capable of restraining his nonsense. Lose them I must, because it’s plain to me that if he rides out with fifteen hundred men at heel he’s raising money on my authority and putting it into his own pocket!
And
flying his flag over Windsor. That is intolerable!’
I looked at him with growing dismay and no little bewilderment. Was it possible that he had missed the ominous sign which pointed to a worse state of affairs than the loss of a little revenue and an insult to prestige? Couldn’t he see the game Longchamp and John were playing? Longchamp, leaping from power to power, would wait until he was unassailable and then he and John would strike a bargain; the crown for the rogue with the royal blood, the power behind it for the rogue with the brains and ambition. Both would be perfectly suited; John craved the glitter without responsibility; Longchamp itched for authority. Richard was fretting over the loss of money and a flagpole and seeming to ignore the fact that he might lose his crown. Or was he seeing the reality and was I being over-imaginative?
‘If I had time,’ Richard said quite pleasantly, ‘I’d go back and impale the little upstart on his flagpole! But that is out of the question. I’m damned if I know whom to send.’ He studied a slight abrasion on one of his knuckles and then sucked it thoughtfully.
I hesitated for a moment, then said: ‘I know this advice will be unwelcome—but frankly, Richard, you should go yourself. Not because of the money or the flag flying; they’re trivial things compared with the general situation. You see, Geoffrey says—Where is it? Here. Listen. “Every day sees his party strengthen and ours weaken as men go over to him out of fear or self-seeking.” You see, England is already divided; the very thing we dreaded and tried to avoid. At least you didn’t, I did, but “we” sounds better. Whoever you send,’ I hurried on, ‘will only be one man more on Geoffrey’s side. Only
you
are above both parties. Only you have the power and the courage. And, Richard, think of the effect of your arrival. Longchamp will collapse like a pricked bladder from sheer surprise and every man in England will see that though you have this great enterprise on hand you still have time and thought to spare for your own country.’ I watched him carefully. ‘The crux of all this,’ I said, tapping the letter, ‘is that the cunning little swine has got him a good bodyguard. They fold their hands and say, “What can we do? He has fifteen hundred men at heel.” You are the only one whom fifteen hundred men would not deter. I can think of nobody else.’
Flattery of the basest kind, though not without an element of truth. I saw Richard’s eyes brighten as he sensed the challenge. For a moment I thought I had persuaded him. Then he suddenly smacked his hand on the table and said:
‘No. Mother, this is the ultimate trick of the devil!’ His voice took on a curious edge. ‘Every possible thing that could delay me has conspired to do so.’ Each word came out, slow, sharp, distinct. ‘It would take an hour to tell you all the obstacles, all the delays that I have borne. Sometimes it has seemed to me that God Himself must be a fool or impotent to let such things happen to me. There is the Holy City in the grip of the infidel, a thing you’d think He’d shudder on His throne to see; and here am I, the best soldier of my time, asking nothing more than the chance to go and fight for its freedom. And from the awkwardness of Philip of France to the obstinacy of a mule, everything has worked against me. Now I am ready and the devil, having played every card but this, brings it out with a flourish! I will not go. I tell you, Mother—and you can hear me too, Satan—I wouldn’t go back to England if it were on fire from coast to coast and I could put it out by blowing on it.’ The dark red colour had crept over his face and against it his eyes looked like pale pebbles. He was breathing quickly and the sweat shone on his brow.
‘I know,’ I said soothingly. ‘Your patience must have been strained to breaking point. But, Richard, England matters too.’
‘Matters? Of course it matters! England provides the sinews of war. And I can’t have Longchamp nibbling at them. I’ll stop his depredations. Alwyne must go back with orders to Geoffrey to stiffen himself. “Loyal and incorruptible” Father called him once; what’s the sense of being loyal and incorruptible if your backbone is like a wet plaster?’
‘He is both those things,’ I said. ‘He informed you at once, though he must have felt shame at confessing his failure.’ And why, I wonder, should I be defending Geoffrey, the son of Rosamonde?
‘He squealed for help!’ Richard retorted harshly. ‘Well, I’ll help him, the pusillanimous dummy. I’ll send somebody fresh and independent with new orders and with authority to override him and Longchamp.’ He gnawed savagely at his sore knuckle and then looked up. ‘I know. I’ll send Coutances!’
‘Oh, Richard,’ I said, speaking out as I had done in the past days, ‘such an old man!’
‘Well, you’re an old woman,’ he said with a bark of laughter. ‘You’re none the worse for that, are you?’
Either much better or infinitely worse; by what standard should one judge? And this is no time to chop logic.
‘Why that particular old man?’
‘He’s honest. And Geoffrey and he know one another. Geoffrey goes a little in awe of him. Whatever orders he carries Geoffrey will try to carry out.’
‘But, my dear boy, Geoffrey’s obedience has never been in question. We may assume, surely, that he has already done his utmost, else he would never have written this—this confession of failure in the first trust you have ever laid upon him. He has his pride. This despatch must have cost him blood to write! Sending Coutances to bully him will be beating a dead horse. If he’d had a bolt left he’d have shot it rather than appeal to you. And Coutances will have no effect upon these people who go over to Longchamp day by day. He hasn’t a word of English to his tongue. And you know how they feel—at least
you
don’t but I
do
. “Another bloody foreigner!” That’s what they’ll say. And the mass of them have little taste for churchmen. If you won’t go yourself—and I say won’t, Richard, because it sticks in my mind that you could if you had a mind to; one more month of the infidel’s foot in the holy places can do little damage; he’s been there for years; one more month of Longchamp in England may lose you your kingdom—but if you won’t go yourself, at least send a man, a soldier, an Englishman.’
It was just as it had always been. There was Richard looking at me with the very same cold distaste which had shown on the faces of Louis and Henry whenever I had argued with them. And he spoke with the same harsh voice.
‘Any man, any soldier with his salt is here with me and going forward with me to hunt bigger game than a cheating little pickpocket playing at king of the castle. I have no man to waste on him! He’s frightened Geoffrey Whoreson and by God he’s scared you. He hasn’t brought me to the point where I’d waste an untried knight on him. Coutances and a scorching message from me are all he’ll get. I’ll go and see Coutances now.’
He stretched a long arm behind the screen and hauled out a plain linen jerkin into which he began to struggle. I knew it was the worst moment to pursue an argument; I knew that whatever I said would anger him further but this thing mattered. So I waited until his head was free and he was buckling the leather belt about his waist and then I said:
‘Richard, don’t be in such a hurry. Don’t send an old foreign cleric, I beg of you. What you need is not just another man on this side or that you need somebody above the lot of them. Somebody capable of
ruling
England.’
He stood still, his hand on the buckle. ‘Look, Mother. Once before I took your advice and called back Geoffrey of York. Did that profit me?’
‘It got you an honest report of the state of affairs. Your Hugh of Durham and your brother John haven’t bothered to tell you that the Great Seal of England is tossed aside and the guttersnipe’s standard waving over Windsor, have they? Have they?’
He looked at me with pure hatred and then, just like the others in the early years when they loved me, took refuge in a typical male attitude. ‘Little woman, don’t worry.’ He struck me lightly on the shoulder. ‘Cheer up, Mother. You take this too seriously. It was the devil’s last throw. He’ll leave me alone now. You’ll see.’
I was momentarily speechless. In the silence he picked up his great sword and then, after a second’s thought, laid it down again and went back behind the screen.
‘I’ll come part of the way with you,’ he said, ‘the mule pickets lie that way. Tancred kept his bargain but a third of the beasts are lame and all of them rotten with sores and my fellows say that the muleteers will
eat
the bran poultices I ordered. So I drop in now and then when they least expect me and I keep a little stick. Where in Christ’s holy name is my little stick? Ah! “Mule in front,” I say, “mule behind,” and I wallop their arses.’ He emerged again, tucking a thin flexible cane under his arm and pulling on the gloves I had made him. ‘Dickon! Dickon! He’s always underfoot when I don’t want him and a mile away, when I do. Oh, there you are. You know where Sir Alwyne lies? Take him a hot posset and a dish of frumenty, well spiced; wake him and tell him it is my order that he eat and preserve his strength. Now, Mother,’ he said, leaping down from the platform and reaching his hand to me. ‘Coutances and Bavister and my lord of Rheims lie out by the mule pickets—the men call it “Pets’ Corner”—and I can make one errand of it.’