Chapter 28
Twenty-eight
William and Baldwin de Béthune had billeted themselves in a wine merchant’s house in Chatillon.
Arriving back from the counsel chamber, William left his squires to tend the horses and slumped on a bench in the main room, feeling drained to the marrow.
At times like this, a quiet life in England’s North Country began to look very attractive.
A summer of optimism was rapidly turning into a difficult autumn.
Henry and Philip of France had been meeting and negotiating in sporadic fashion since July, but each time the outcome was the same.
No agreement, escalating skirmishes, then a truce and another meeting more barren than the last. At first, Henry had had the upper hand, but matters had begun to curdle faster than three-day-old milk on a hot morning.
“At least the wine’s good,” Baldwin muttered as he handed a cup to William and sat down beside him.
“You won’t find grape-treaders’ toe-parings in the lees.
” The habit of making light remarks was ingrained and meant nothing for his mood was grim.
“If I find out who started the rumour that Henry intends to pass over Richard and leave his crown to John, I’ll have his guts for girth straps. ”
“You’d have to go to the French side to do that,” William said.
“Philip will do his utmost to drive a wedge between Henry and Richard—and it won’t be hard, given their characters.
” William accepted a cup from the squire.
The scene between father and son had been ugly.
They both had wills of iron and each thought himself the better ruler, one by dint of grit and long experience, the other bursting with ambition and fierce military talent.
Younger than the King, older than Richard, William could see both sides of the frequent arguments between them, but tried to avoid becoming embroiled.
“Do you think he really would give England to John over Richard’s head?”
“I think that he would like to and I know that John eggs him on in all kinds of subtle ways to slight Richard…but if it comes to the sticking point, he won’t do it, not after the way he fought for his own right to rule when he was a young man.
” William took several swallows of wine.
“The situation is still dangerous. Richard doesn’t have the patience for such games—as we’ve just seen.
” He grimaced at the memory of Richard storming out of the counsel with his father, saying that he would be damned in hell before he saw John take the throne.
John had said nothing; he hadn’t needed to: his smirk had spoken volumes.
“Supposing Henry does disinherit Richard in favour of John?” Baldwin said sombrely. “What sort of king will John make? He was a disaster when his father sent him to Ireland.”
William shook his head. “He was too young to tackle Ireland, and his father should never have given him the responsibility. The King was ready for command at sixteen years old—we’ve heard the tales until they’ve worn grooves in our ears, but men don’t mature at the same rate—especially not the sons of great men.
Our young lord was eight and twenty, but still a feckless lad when we buried him…
God rest his soul.” William crossed himself, so did Baldwin.
“John has the ability and the wits,” William added after a pause.
“He’s as sharp as a needle, but too often he uses that sharpness to stab and wound, instead of sewing a good seam.
He’s jealous and covetous too, especially of Richard. ”
“If my brother were Richard, I would be jealous,” Baldwin replied. “He’s got the looks, the prowess, and a knack of making men want to follow him to the ends of the earth. John will never command that kind of loyalty.”
“No,” William agreed bleakly. When he had entered Queen Eleanor’s service, John had been an engaging imp with a ready smile. But Eleanor had not loved her last-born child; Henry had doted on him; between them, his parents had twisted him awry.
The men drank in morose silence while the sky bruised into dusk. “Have you approached the King about making good on his promise to you of Chateauroux?” Baldwin asked at length.
William shook his head. “Not yet.”
Baldwin eyed him thoughtfully. “Do you want her?”
“It’s a fine prize, but it’s going to be a hard fight to gain it, and will the King be willing to give it up when it comes to the point?” William turned his cup contemplatively between his hands. “Also it’s a long way from England.”
Baldwin snorted. “Says the man who has spent more than half of his life wandering the tourney roads through France and Flanders, and taken a pilgrim’s cross to Jerusalem.”
William smiled gravely. “Indeed, but perhaps when I am not warming my hands at the hellish fires of the court, I would prefer to be in England.”
“Then ask him for an English heiress instead.”
“That’s what I intend to—when I find an opportune moment. His mood’s too chancy just now. Anyone who asks for anything is likely to receive the sharp edge of his tongue.”
“Had you any particular heiress in mind?”
William set his cup on the scrubbed wooden board. “Isabelle de Clare.”
Baldwin pursed his lips assessingly and nodded. “The estates are not as valuable as Berry.”
William shrugged. “Almost, and they’re not on the French border.”
“Welsh and Irish though,” Baldwin smiled.
“That is a challenge, not a difficulty,” William answered and returned Baldwin’s smile, albeit that the curve of his lips was dour. “As matters stand, it’s not as if I am about to become a bridegroom soon, is it?”
In the morning the counsel resumed and William watched the situation between Henry and his eldest surviving son deteriorate as each man made demands untenable to the other.
King Philip, who had instigated the dispute between father and son by declaring that he would retreat from the territory he had occupied if Henry would confirm Richard as his heir and see him married to his betrothed of twenty years, Alys, Philip’s half-sister, looked on like a spectator at a lion fight.
Red in the face, fists clenched, Henry glared at the King of France and at Richard, whose own complexion was hectic.
“I will not be backed into a corner by your petty scheming,” he snarled at Philip. “I will designate my heir at a time of my choosing, not yours.”
Philip spread his hands. “It seems a fair enough compromise to me. Confirm your eldest son as your heir, see him wed to his bride in honour of your promise. He asks nothing that a reasonable father would not grant to his eldest son.”
“No, you ask!” Henry snarled, stabbing a short, nail-chewed forefinger at Philip. “It’s your intent to drive a wedge between me and my sons.”
“I do not need a wedge when you have a much larger one of your own,” Philip said. “Do not blame me for your troubles when they are all of your own making.” He extended his open palm towards Richard. “Confirm Richard as your heir; set his wedding day to my sister. That is all you have to do.”
Standing on guard at Henry’s side, William could see the King’s body shuddering with the force of his rage.
Beside his father, John sat with the inscrutability of a cat, although William suspected that inside his mouth he was grinning from ear to ear.
“I have to do nothing. You will not force me to it,” Henry said in a constricted voice.
“All you will do is beget yourself a war that will cost you dear.”
Richard unfolded his long body and stood up.
His grey eyes glittered like chips of polished serpentine as he turned towards his father.
“No,” he said, “it will cost you dear. Why should I keep faith with you when you refuse to acknowledge my rights? Are you so eaten up with bitterness and your contrary will that you would leave your kingdom to a fool boy who’s proven he can neither rule men nor fight his way out of a flour sack?
” He gestured contemptuously at his youngest brother.
“You think he’s worthy? God’s death, everything he touches curdles and turns sour. ”
John’s tawny gaze narrowed.
“It is not John who is curdling my gut,” Henry said. “Sit down.”
William’s right hand crawled involuntarily towards the hilt of his sword.
Richard’s eyes flickered as he caught William’s intention and his own hand went to his gilded swordbelt.
But instead of drawing his blade, he unbuckled the belt and slowly removed both it and the attached scabbard.
Turning his back on his father and brother, he slowly approached the King of France and just as slowly knelt before him, laying the scabbard at his feet.
“I hereby give you my homage for my lands of Normandy and Aquitaine,” he declared in a voice that rang around the hall, “and I swear you my fealty saving only that which I owe to my father the King.” The last words were loud and bitter.
“And I beseech your aid should I be deprived of my rights as his heir.”
Henry leaped to his feet and had to be restrained by the Archbishop of Canterbury. “You purblind fool!” Henry raged. “Can’t you see that you’re being manipulated!”
Richard looked at his father, his own control deadly.
“No,” he said in a voice husky with tension.
“I have chosen freedom from manipulation. Look to the plank of wood in your own eye before you remove the mote of sawdust from mine!” Turning on his heel, summoning his retainers, he took up his swordbelt and strode from the hall.
Philip of France rose and also turned to leave.
“War is upon you,” he said to Henry, “and of your own causing. If I ever envied you, then today I have been cured. You know where to seek if you come to your senses and desire not to see your heartlands burn beneath the wrath of your son. He has given me his fealty and I am honour bound to help him.”