Chapter 37
Thirty-seven
Isabelle watched her son crawl across the floor of Madam FitzReinier’s solar towards the coloured ball she had just rolled for him. Occasionally his coordination failed and he shuffled backwards or had to pause to decide which limb to move next, but he was determined.
“Men are so delightful at this age,” declared Madam FitzReinier. “What a pity they have to grow up.”
Isabelle laughed. “There’s some truth in that,” she agreed, “although I shall enjoy watching him develop. I wonder if he’ll look like William.”
“Likely so,” said Madam FitzReinier. “He has the same good nature.”
“Oh, you haven’t seen him yet when he’s tired and hungry,” Isabelle said.
“The babe or your husband?” the dame jested.
Isabelle giggled. “No, they’re not at all the same.
My son will scream and fret. William just grows quiet and sombre.
” The mirth left her expression. “These are difficult times,” she said softly as she watched the infant stretch small fat fingers for the ball that was just beyond his reach.
He gave a squeal of impatience, tried harder, and went backwards instead.
“And worse to come before they get better,” Madam FitzReinier predicted gloomily. “Between the ambitions of the Bishop of Ely and Prince John, we’ll be ground like grain between two millstones.”
Isabelle sighed agreement. York had only been the beginning of Longchamp’s bid for power.
Two months after that, while she and William were still in Normandy, he had attempted Gloucester Castle and only the arrival of the Bishop of Winchester with a substantial escort of soldiers had forced him to back down.
Longchamp had stripped his fellow justiciar, the Bishop of Durham, of his powers and ridden like a roughshod conqueror throughout England, his power bolstered by a large band of mercenaries.
Richard, overwintering in Sicily, had done little to curb his chancellor’s excesses.
Perhaps Longchamp’s ability to squeeze funds out of every last corner and crevice mattered more to Richard than the complaints coming from those who were being squeezed.
A commotion in the yard heralded the return of the men from their visit to the wharves where FitzReinier had been eager to show off his new barge to William.
It had been an excuse as well for the men to stretch their legs and leave the women to their own gossip.
The baby finally reached his ball, grasped it in his chubby hand, sat up, and threw it down again, his lower lip thrust out in concentration.
Deed accomplished, he squealed at his own cleverness and looked round at his mother in search of praise.
But Isabelle wasn’t paying attention to her son, she was listening to the voices of the men as they mounted the outer stairs to the solar.
Worryingly, they were not filled with the pleasure and bonhomie she would have expected from their outing, but were muted and anxious.
When they entered the room, their expressions were bleak.
The baby abandoned his ball and stretched his arms towards his father, demanding to be picked up. William did so, but the gesture was instinctive, without conscious thought.
“What is it?” asked Isabelle. “What’s happened now?”
FitzReinier advanced to the brazier to warm his hands.
“I am a loyal man,” he said, “and I bow the knee to my King, but I begin to wonder if he will have a kingdom to return to. One of my men came to me at the warehouse with grave news.” “One of my men” was a euphemism for “spy,” of which FitzReinier had as efficient a network as any magnate or prelate in the land.
“Longchamp claims to have a letter from Richard designating his nephew Arthur of Brittany as his heir should he die whilst on crusade and entrusting Longchamp as regent.”
“But Arthur of Brittany is still a child in smocks,” Isabelle said. “How can Richard choose a baby above his adult brother?”
“Whim, spleen, misrepresentation,” FitzReinier said curtly. “And Longchamp is not above forging documents, as Hugh of Durham could tell you. Longchamp owns a copy of Richard’s seal and he doesn’t always use it for legitimate purposes.”
“Does Prince John know about this?” Isabelle looked anxiously at her husband.
This could well be disastrous for them. As a royal sub-justiciar, William was supposed to support Longchamp, but it was already proving difficult.
To defend the haughty Bishop as regent would be beyond swallowing. Yet refusing to do so was treason.
“He must do by now,” William said. “The same messengers will have gone to him. He’ll be putting his castellans on alert and stocking his castles to defy Longchamp even as we speak. God knows what’s to be done.”
Isabelle thought about Madam FitzReinier’s comment that they would be caught like a grain between two millstones. There had to be a way of pegging Longchamp’s ambition while still keeping Prince John sweet. “Perhaps a woman’s touch is what is needed,” she said after a moment.
“Meaning?” William asked.
“The Queen,” Isabelle said. “She has no love for William Longchamp and Richard will listen to her. He trusts her advice and she may be able to sway his opinion. She won’t want to see her family dominions ruled by a pederast priest on behalf of a three-year-old.
If the sub-justiciars send their letters to her, rather than straight to Richard, she may be able to intervene and make him more disposed to listen. ”
William looked at her, and the frown between his brows lessened. “That’s a sound notion, my love—a woman’s touch indeed.”
Isabelle flushed at his praise. The tense atmosphere that had entered the room with the men eased a little.
An attendant brought two silver-gilt platters heaped with pastry wafers and gingerbread, and flagons of hot, sweet wine.
William gave one of the wafers to Will to maul with his new teeth and set him back down on the floor.
Between them, they drafted a letter to Queen Eleanor.
William summoned his scribes and had them write fair copies to the other justiciars, whose approval and additions would be sought before the message was sent.
Another letter went to William’s brother John who was attending on Prince John.
“For what good it will do,” William said as he pressed his seal into the soft red wax.
“My brother is the Prince’s man first and he won’t have the strength or inclination to rein him back. ”
FitzReinier cleared his throat. “If you had to decide between the Prince and Longchamp, what choice would you make?”
“The right one, I hope,” William said, his gaze on his infant son.
William had known Walter of Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, for most of his adult life, although their acquaintance had only deepened over the last few years.
Walter, like William, was of English birth, a stocky red-faced Cornishman with a fluffy white tonsure and benign mien masking a will of iron.
His nephew was married to Heloise of Kendal and he and William were natural allies.
The Archbishop had set out on crusade with the King, but had turned back at Cyprus with a slew of royal orders including a remit to aid in the governing of England that gave him authority over Longchamp.
Sitting in council with him and the other sub-justiciars at Westminster, William digested the letters that de Coutances had just read out.
“So this means,” William said slowly, “that if Longchamp ignores our advice and guidance and stirs up trouble, we have the authority to override him and depose him from office?”
“That is indeed the case, my lord,” replied the Archbishop with a dry smile.
“My brief and yours”—here he included all the sub-justiciars in his glance—“is to steer a path between the rocks of the various factions and keep the ship intact for the King’s return.
Providing my lord Longchamp consults with us and is governed by our advice, he is to be allowed to conduct his business as he sees fit—as long as he is within the law.
These letters are not to be shown to him or used unless it becomes necessary.
Should the chancellor come to hear of them in a premature way, it is possible that he might seek to take countermeasures. Do I make myself clear?”
“Eminently, my lord,” said Geoffrey FitzPeter. “I speak for us all when I say that no one will breathe a word of this, but I do not think we will have to keep these letters secret for long.”
“That remains to be seen,” said de Coutances. He flicked a warning glance around his fellow justiciars. “We need to act swiftly if it does, but not in the haste of men desiring to precipitate a quarrel. We must stay within the law.”
His words were met with muted murmurs of assent.
“We are only grateful and relieved that the King has sent you to us,” said Geoffrey FitzPeter. “God knows we would have been struggling without you.”
De Coutances’s smile was dry. “Your thanks should go to Queen Eleanor,” he said. “It was her word above all others that persuaded the King he had to act.” His small, shrewd eyes fixed knowingly on William. “It was a good thing that your messages reached her on the road.”
William returned the smile. “Yes,” he said, “it was.”
De Coutances shuffled the parchments on the trestle before him and neatened them together. “I have more news for you to digest, and celebrate,” he said and, folding his hands on top of the parchments, proceeded to tell them.