“Lady Ariel …?”
She spun around, her face set for further battle. “What is it?”
Dafydd ap Iorwerth flinched an involuntary step back. He and Sedrick had been seated with the other knights, close to the dais as befitting their status, but too far to have joined any conversations. He had witnessed the hostilities between Ariel and FitzRandwulf, and had thought to offer himself as a diversion.
“F-forgive me for disturbing you, my lady. I only thought to inquire if you enjoyed your meal.”
The deep green sparks in Ariel’s eyes flared. “Enjoyed it? It is a wonder my belly has not soured beyond redemption. And the air … it is so stifling, I can barely breathe.”
“If the air is close, my lady,” he suggested eagerly, “perhaps you would care for a walk in the garden? I have been told of Lady Servanne’s success with winter roses.”
Just like a Welshman, she thought angrily. Or any man for that matter, thinking to placate her with a walk in the gardens, as if the workings of nature should be the most important thing on her mind. Ariel steadied herself to tell him precisely where he could put each and every thorn of those winter roses, but a gust of masculine laughter farther along the dais lured her eye to where FitzRandwulf and Henry were standing together. Henry was looking her way and nodding with one of his wretchedly indecipherable smiles; the Bastard was deliberately not looking her way, but she could tell he was watching her nonetheless.
Seething, she slipped her hand through the crook of Lord Dafydd’s arm. “A walk among the roses would be just the thing, my lord,” she said loudly. “I thank you for your concern.”
Henry, his mouth still crinkled with amusement, watched the Welshman and his sister beg their leave of the lord and lady of the chateau before making their way toward the rear of the great hall.
“Odd,” he mused. “I would not have wagered she knew the difference between a rose and a thistle.”
Eduard glanced at the departing couple. “Whereas I would wager neither have as many prickles as her tongue.”
Seeing Henry’s slow frown, FitzRandwulf sighed and hastened to add, “I fear your sister did not enjoy my company overmuch this evening. We, ahh, happened to have met earlier in the afternoon when I found her in the castle armoury, and when I attempted to ascertain her reasons for being there, she apparently took umbrage at my manner.”
Henry stared at Eduard for a long moment before allowing the corner of his mouth to relent and turn upward again. “Pay no heed. Ariel tends to take umbrage easily, especially when she is caught doing something she should not be doing. I wondered why she acted as if she had caught a mouthful of hornets when the introductions were made. Raiding your armoury, was she?”
“Inspecting it, more’s the like. With a surprisingly keen eye, I might add.”
“She has a surprisingly keen ability to go along with it,” Henry advised.
“I will bear it in mind.”
“Bear also that she is my sister, and I love her dearly despite her faults.”
Eduard nodded slightly, acknowledging the sentiment and the warning.
Sparrow, who had thankfully been distracted during most of the exchange, received a nod from Lord Randwulf and looked up at both knights. “A finger has wiggled at us, inviting us to a private meeting with the lord marshal. Where is the Welshman gone?”
“To smell the roses,” Eduard said dryly.
“Eh? Just as well, he was not invited anyway. Come, my bold blades. Touch your toes to my heels and bring yon tankards. What I am smelling bodes nothing sweet ahead.”
Eduard spared a last glance at the far stairway, all but obscured behind the haze caused by the smoke and roisterous atmosphere raised by so large a gathering. Ariel and Dafydd had reached the top step and were a moment away from being swallowed into the heavier gloom of the outer landing. At the last possible instant, Ariel turned to look over her shoulder, but her face was nothing more than a pale blur and Eduard could not be absolutely certain she saw him, let alone his mock salute.
CHAPTER SIX
Eduard declined to take a chair and stood with his back to the wall as his father and the marshal settled around a large oak table with Lord Henry, Alaric, and Sparrow. They had retreated to one of the private chambers partitioned off from the solid block walls of the hall. It was not much bigger than the alcove they had occupied before the meal, save it had a narrower entrance and let fewer sights and sounds escape. A further, casual nod from the marshal’s leonine head was acknowledged by Sir Sedrick of Grantham, who took up a position close to the chamber to discourage any potential eavesdroppers.
“A sad day indeed,” Lord Randwulf remarked, “when a man has to guard his tongue under his own roof.”
“It would be sadder still to give the king a reason to asseize Amboise,” the earl returned bitterly. “It will already require fancy word-work on my part to explain why we journeyed so many leagues out of our way to stop here, but …” He shrugged his big shoulders as if to express an opinion of the king’s wit.
The Wolf held his thoughts until a large flagon of ale had been tipped to fill their tankards and the servant dismissed with a wave of his hand. His leg was aching abominably but he suspected, with the same acumen Sparrow displayed, his wound would be the least of his concerns before the hour was out.
When the men were alone, he put forth the question bluntly. “Why did you stop here, old friend?”
William ran a thumb around the rim of pewter and took a deep swallow of ale. “Before I answer—and God grant me your mercy that you do not take offence—I must have your pledge as knights and men of absolute honour, that not one word of what we discuss here tonight is breathed beyond this circle. Not to your wives, not to your lemans, not to a priest should he be incanting the last rites over your ascending souls.”
The Wolf’s steely gaze reflected the flame of the single, thick candle that sat in a puddle of its own translucent wax. Were it any other man demanding such an oath, swords would already have been drawn to answer the insult. That their weapons remained sheathed was not only a measure of the respect they had for the marshal, but an ominous indication that they all felt a strong degree of apprehension at his presence.
With a deliberate firmness, Lord Randwulf extended his hand and clasped it over Pembroke’s.
“You have my most solemn oath,” he pledged quietly.
Alaric leaned forward, as did Eduard and Henry, and finally Sparrow, who had to kneel upon the tabletop to reach his pudgy hand to the mound of others. Each gave his oath in turn, vowing to die by his own hands if necessary, to preserve the trust they were forming this night.
“I came,” William began, after they had settled to their seats again, “because I fear Merlin’s prophecy will soon come true: ‘That the sword shall become divided from the sceptre, Normandy from England, in the reign of a dark-eyed king.’ I came,” he added, “because the French monarch had a grin on his face when he sent me on my way. And I came … because I know you to be a man of your word, a man I can trust with my life, and the lives of my family, if need be.”
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 cripp
led 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 revo
lt 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.”
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 56
