by Dave Duncan
I could not argue with that. Pipewell Manor was a humble seat for a baron, although it suited us. Even imagining a future where all four of our children gathered with children of their own, it might suffice. A dozen Legiers and their retainers it could manage, but only just. Servants would be sleeping on the floor, so we would not be lying when we turned away would-be boarders with the claim that we had no room.
“When is this invasion due to start anyway?” William demanded. “How did you get advance warning, humble baron?”
“Professional secret.”
He gave me one of the looks he had used twenty-five years earlier when he was promising to pound me into gravel, but this time he followed it with a resigned smile and went off to start planning the siege with Absolon, Baudouin, and an audience of younger Legiers. He also warned Lovise and Millisende to work on provisions for the duration of the great council and the local famine that would follow.
I soon learned that the current bone of contention in the Legier turmoil was that only Absolon and Baudouin were old enough to have sworn the crusader oath without William’s permission, and he forbade any of the others to do so, at least for now. They all wanted to go and slaughter Saracens, of course. Even five-foot-high Guiscard did.
Three days later, the first members of the council began arriving. They would all be supplied with accommodation in the Abbey itself—adequate, if not up to their customary standard. Their numerous attendants and horses would not be boarded there, and the nearest worthy house in sight was Pipewell Manor. There they found the entrance barred. Most of the apparent men-at-arms on guard were shepherds and footmen dressed up with armor and weapons supplied by William, but always at least one, and sometimes two, of the men on duty wore the cross of a crusader. They were sacrosanct and no one dare use violence against them.
Our two genuine crusaders, Absolon and Baudouin, had the youth and enthusiasm to cope with dawn-to dusk vigilance, but they did need breaks, and at times César borrowed one of the crusader surcoats and helped out, for he was tall enough to convince. This fraud was a serious offense, of course. He bragged later that he had refused admittance to the Archbishop of Canterbury.
When the king arrived at the Abbey and called the council to order, of course William and I were present, the two most junior barons. Probably no one in the kingdom knew what the crusade was going to cost, even Richard himself, and he didn’t care. The previous year, after Jerusalem fell and the idea of a crusade was born, King Henry of England and King Philips of France had agreed to impose a special tax on their respective realms. This was to comprise one tenth of every man’s income and the value of his movable property; it soon became known as the Saladin tithe. In England most of it had duly been collected, although a few dioceses were laggard. No domain in France possessed the mechanism to handle a universal levy, so the results had been poorer.
Possibly the clerics and nobles assembled in Pipewell thought that they had already paid their share. If so, Richard rapidly undeceived them. At times King Henry had seemed avaricious, but his greed was as nothing compared to his son’s. There were twenty-seven shires in England, and the office of sheriff was always regarded as a personal gold mine. Richard charged twenty-two sheriffs with malfeasance, fined them large sums of money, dismissed them, and then sold their offices to other men for even larger sums—which they would attempt to recoup with even greater malfeasance, of course.
He levied heavy fines against the men who had kept his mother in jail, although they had been obeying their king at the time, and he even fined men who had joined him in his rebellion against his father. He sold castles, titles, and appointments; he let men who had taken the crusader oath buy their way out of it. It was a dazzling display of rapacity. He reportedly said he would sell London if he could find a buyer.
On the final afternoon, the king gave audience to the great council, one man at a time, and extorted—I use the word advisedly—money from any them who had not taken the crusaders’ oath. Since he proceeded in order of rank, I again had the honor of being the last, long after candles had been lit and everyone of importance had been given leave to go and seek his lodgings, however damp, cold, and humble they might be.
William was second last. The king did not know him.
“Well, Baron? Are you not prepared to join the holy cause?”
“I am past it, Lord King, but I have seven sons, and I will send four.”
“Why not all seven?” The king, I think, was joking.
“The other three aren’t shaving yet, sire.”
Only then did the king smile and nod approval. “You are making a noble contribution. May they triumph in the Lord’s name. You have our leave.”
The smile vanished as he watched me hobble forward and kneel. “Ah, the minstrel baron? Why have you not taken the oath and sworn to rescue Jerusalem from under the heels of the infidels?”
“I am no warrior, Lord King.”
“No? I recall being told that you did once venture to tilt at an honest knight and contrive to unhorse him to his undoing by means of black magic.”
If he believed all that, then it was no wonder that he disliked me.
“With respect, Lord King, he had accused me of murder, and I demanded that I be judged by wager of battle. I was innocent of the charge, so God Himself settled our dispute.”
I won’t say that the king snorted, lest I be suspected of lese majesty, but the royal noise did sound snort-like. He did not dispute the divine verdict, though.
“Well, those who will not serve can still help. Clerk, put Baron Durwin down for a mere one thousand marks.”
“Your Grace! That is many years’ income.”
“Faugh! You can make it by boiling frogs’ eyes in a cauldron.”
End of audience.
But that was also the end of the great council, and the following morning we bade farewell to the Legiers, thanking them for saving us from our betters. William and I embraced, and then I turned away to speak to Millisende—
“What did you just say?”
Unaware of having said anything out of the ordinary, I looked back to William in surprise. “I said farewell.”
He was staring very hard at me. “No, you didn’t! You said, ‘See you in Ascalon.’”
I couldn’t have done, because I had never heard that name before, but I saw that Lovise had caught William’s protest and was watching. “I don’t recall saying that, friend. It was probably just one of those stray prophecies that float around in summer. Best ignore it. Pay no attention.”
William looked ready to punch me on the nose. “You were always odd, Durwin of Pipewell. But these days you’re positively weird.”
One week later a spotty youth in a colorful tabard turned up in Oxford to inform me that, while I had contributed as a baron, the cost of my continuing in the office of enchanter general would be another one thousand marks.
When I told Lovise, she bounced off the rafters. “We don’t have that much!”
I sighed. “But we can raise it.”
“Or we could make it,” she said, in a softer voice.
I looked at her. She turned away to hide a blush.
“Yes, we could, but that would be forgery and therefore black magic, which would imperil our souls.”
The church forbade Christians to lend money, but they could borrow it, so I donned my cloak and went off to speak to the Jews.
Richard’s greed fell mainly on the rich landowners, for only they had wealth to appropriate, but the wild popularity that had greeted him in August shriveled like a raisin. On December 12th, he sailed away to France, and the country relaxed with an almost audible sigh. It was to be a long time before he and England saw each other again.
1190
life returned to normal, although the formerly rich were left licking their financial wounds, while the poor licked their platters to collect every last trace of grease. Queen Eleanor spent the winter at various places in southern England, but I remained in Oxford and
she never sent for me. In February of 1190, she crossed over to France.
The king had put England in the hands of his trusted William Longchamp, who had been his chancellor in Aquitaine. Longchamp was first appointed Bishop of Ely, then chancellor and justiciar, which meant that he was regent when the king left the country. Somehow Richard also persuaded the Pope to make him a papal legate, which gave him authority over the church as well as the state.
This low-born autocrat was a very unprepossessing little man, with a beard that started at his eyes. He walked with a limp and spoke with a stammer. His southern French was almost incomprehensible to the English nobility, who used the northern dialect of their Norman ancestors. He turned out to be quite as grasping as his master, importing a herd of his own relatives, all of whom he appointed to profitable offices, turfing out native-born gentlefolk, many of whom had just bought their appointments from the king. The clergy soon detested him as much as the nobility did.
He sent for me early in the new year. I rode to Westminster with Sage Wilbur, whom I had recently appointed master of the College, but the justiciar called for me only, and I entered alone. The justiciar, regent, chancellor, papal legate, and bishop of Ely were all seated at a desk half buried in parchment, but only the two of us were present. Although his chair was higher than standard, he still looked small. He raised a bushy eyebrow when he saw my cane, and waved me to a stool.
He leaned back and studied me. My conscience was clear, so I waited unblinkingly. I could match his stare, but leaning back on a stool is never advisable.
“I am told that you are Merlin reborn.”
“Our Lady Queen, may the saints preserve her, is very fond of Arthurian allusions, Your Grace.”
“You cannot tell the future for us?”
“Alas, no. Only Merlin could do that, Your Grace.”
“But you have great occult powers. And you have been enchanter general for many years.”
“Since 1166.”
“A Saxon appointed to so high an office at so young an age? Your father must have had great influence.”
“My father was an ostler in Pipewell Abbey. He died when I was a child.”
That produced a smile, a rare one from this tyrant. “I have risen higher than you, but my father was a knight. I started higher.”
“I had much good fortune to aid me, Your Grace. I foiled a Satanic plot to murder King Henry. He knighted me on the spot.”
“And you must have served him well since. You will serve me in his absence?”
“Anything I can do, short of black magic.”
“But you cannot foresee future events?”
“I can cast horoscopes to determine what the stars hold in store for a person, but no more than that.”
“Lord John.” It was a question.
I pulled a face, which was an answer.
Longchamp leaned forward. “King Richard has forbidden him to enter England without my permission.”
I was tempted to wish him luck with that, but I just waited for more.
“Can you use your skills to warn me if he makes the attempt?”
At least I was not being asked to actively prevent John from crossing the channel, which I could not have done without dabbling in black arts.
“Very few enchantments reach across the sea, my lord, but if he remains in northern France, then I believe I can place him. Were I to advise you, say once a month, of his whereabouts, would that suffice?”
The justiciar shook his head. “Once a week!”
“You do not appreciate the effort you are asking, Your Grace. Every two weeks, and sometimes I may have to admit that I don’t know. And I will need free use of the royal couriers to report to you.”
Another intimidating stare. “You are of lowly birth, you hobble around on a cane, and you bargain like the Pope. We have much in common, Enchanter.”
“You honor me, Lord Bishop.”
There was a pause, but then he said, “Every ten days, then. Anything I can do for you?”
I guessed that absolutely nobody entered his office without begging for something, and he was nonplussed that I had not brought a list of my own requirements.
“Not for myself. Lord John has a retainer, an Irishman named Bran of Tara. I suspect he may be an enchanter of some power. I have had little success in learning more about him, but it might be to both our advantages if you did.”
Longchamp gave me a second smile and made a note. It seemed that the two low-born upstart cripples were going to get along famously.
I returned to Oxford and my continuing efforts to improve the Myrddin Wyllt enchantment, which I would need to keep watch on Lord John for the justiciar. Any text that imposes cramps and headaches on the chanter usually lacks style. “The spirits dislike bad grammar,” was what I told students, but rhythm and vocabulary were important, too. I went through the incantation word by word several times. I did manage to cure it of its more sadistic habits, but it insisted on imparting a raging thirst.
Because the Myrddin Wyllt was a single-voice enchantment, I needed no cantor to assist me, and even Lovise was unaware that I was spying on the king’s brother for Bishop Longchamp. I reassured my conscience by reminding it that I had my own reasons for distrusting the man and a duty to suppress the use of black magic in the king’s realm. I had no admissible evidence that Lord John and his Irish accomplice were dabbling in such evil. Even if I found any, it would have to be truly heinous before I would dare report it to the king.
Noontime worked best for my snooping because that was when John ate dinner, and the language he used to the servants told me which country he was in. If I saw him out of doors, the landscape served the same purpose— the style of the cottages or the presence of vineyards.
Longchamp never kept his side of our bargain by sending me information on the mysterious Bran of Tara, but I soon learned what the man looked like. Whenever John was having a private one-on-one with someone, it was either a girl he was seducing, or a certain swarthy, shortish, heavy-set man of around forty with a forked black beard. He kept the front of his scalp shaved from ear to ear, a style I have not seen anywhere else. Since I never witnessed the two men together with others, I could assume that this man must be a very confidential aide, so who else but Bran of Tara?
One day near the end of February, I viewed John on the move with banners flying and a train of a hundred or more. Clearly, this was no hunting trip. The countryside looked much like Norman bocage, but I wanted to know where he was heading, so the next morning I checked on him again.
I was astonished to find myself viewing a hall where at least a dozen men were seated around a very large table, actually several tables pushed together, all littered with thick law books. John was there, and so were the king and Archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury. I recognized Archbishop Geoffrey of York and several bishops I had seen at the coronation. Some of these men seemed oddly blurred, as if my eyes were malfunctioning. Such people rarely assemble so early in the day.
King Richard was glowering, clearly displeased. John seemed quietly amused, enjoying his brother’s displeasure, no matter what its cause. I was most surprised to see Justiciar Longchamp in this assembly, looking attentive and obedient, waiting to learn where the royal anger would strike. I had not been aware that he had left England.
The king was tapping his fingers on the table and staring at the door, so he was being kept waiting by someone. Waiting for someone, I guessed when I noticed two empty chairs directly opposite him. At last two footmen on duty by the door opened it to admit the absentees. The first was Queen Eleanor, robed in splendor and wearing both a gold coronet and a triumphant expression which would have dropped me groveling on the floor in terror had it been directed at me.
Behind her crept in Aalis of France, Countess Vexin, half-sister of King Philip. Aalis was close to thirty years old, but her looks were fading and she seemed older. Her position two paces behind Eleanor gave her the status of servant, which her attire did not deny—
I could tell at a glance that it had not been made by the same expert seamstresses as the queen’s, nor of the same fine fabrics. Her hair was unbound and in need of better grooming. She was taller than Eleanor, although her stoop hid that.
Richard rose to honor his mother, and most of the other men followed his lead. Some, like the two archbishops, did not. The women curtseyed and Eleanor swept around to one of the empty chairs, which another footman had already pulled out for her. The instant she was seated, so was everyone else except poor Lady Aalis. The footman did move her chair for her, but reluctantly, as if he had been instructed not to hurry for that one.
Aalis, obviously aware that she was the agenda of the meeting, cowered in her seat like a guilty child.
“Begin,” the king said. The three clerks dipped their quills in inkwells.
Archbishop Baldwin signified the opening of proceedings by thumping his crozier on the floor three times. “Aalis, Countess of Vexin, these noble lords are gathered here today to examine the condition of your betrothal to His Grace, Richard of England. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
Aalis made a visible effort and sat up straight. “Do you?”
That anybody, and especially a woman, should talk back to an archbishop in that way produced a roar of anger from every man present. Queen Eleanor just pulled a face to register contempt.
Baldwin hammered on the floor for order, and repeated the question.
Sullenly, Aalis muttered something inaudible.
“Louder!”
“I so swear.”
“You are a daughter of the late King Louis VII of France and his second wife, Constance of Castile?”
“So I have been told, although it is a long time since I was treated as—”
Thump! “Just answer my questions, without comments. You were betrothed to Lord Richard, as he then was? When was that?”
“1169—January.” She was sinking lower on her chair, like a snail retreating into its shell.
