“Sweet girl,” he muttered, and pushed into her.
In England, John was telling everyone that Richard was dead.
He almost believed it himself. Certainly it could be true; and anyway, regardless of what the truth was, Richard was not there and that gave John the right to assume the crown. At least he felt justified in trying for it.
It was not going to be easy for Henry Plantagenet’s last born son to consolidate his power, that was sure. There was Eleanor to contend with. She would support Richard with her final breath, so there was no hope for John in that quarter. The English clergy, who had supported John’s side in a conflict with chancellor Longchamp two years ago, were firmly united on the side of Richard. So were the barons. Even William Marshal, who had once hated Richard, refused to declare John’s accession lawful.
There was already a great rush to collect Richard’s ransom.
John sat at Dover for a while, unsure of what to do, pondering his future. Then he crossed to Normandy to confront the barons. He came to the fortress of Alen^on, ostensibly to discuss the matter of Richard’s imprisonment, but instead he made a bold proposal to the men assembled there. If they would swear an oath of fealty to him, John said, he would protect them against the French king, who even now was preparing an invasion of Normandy.
He had expected cold refusals. Instead they laughed.
There was only one man they would recognize as Duke of Normandy and he now languished in a German jail. If Richard was dead, God would send them a sign, they said. But all the rumors coming out of Wurzburg (where Richard had been moved) declared that the king was not only in good health but in good spirits—charming his jailers, and engaged in writing letters to his mother, urging her to raise the money for his ransom.
The barons stood firm. So long as Richard lived he was their duke. John was no more than the ruthless fool who had abandoned a loving father on his deathbed and now sought to rob his unfortunate brother of the crown.
He would get no help in his treachery from them.
In mid-March John came to Paris to ask Philippe’s help.
There was no other course. The French king planned to invade Normandy no matter what John chose to do, so it seemed foolish not to fall in with him. Now that the barons had made their decision known, John was in no position to defend Normandy against Philippe and his soldiers.
Philippe welcomed the last of Henry’s sons to the Cite Palais.
“How good it is to have you here at last,” he said to John on the first evening after they had feasted alone together, and then settled back to take their wine. “Last autumn when I invited you to Paris you let your mother talk you out of coming.” Philippe’s smile was goadingly sarcastic. “How did you manage to convince her on this occasion?”
John felt uneasy. He didn’t know Philippe very well, and it was hard to face those cold black eyes. “I always meant to come,” he offered weakly, ignoring the haughty reference to Eleanor, “but I had to see what the barons of England and Normandy were willing to offer first.”
“How well you phrase it,” Philippe smiled. “And what did you discover?”
John looked dismally into his wine cup. A blurred, red face looked back at him, taunting of failure. It was humiliating to admit defeat to the powerful king of the Franks, but John shrugged at his own embarrassment and said, “Neither Normandy nor England will accept me as their lord so long as Richard lives.”
Philippe tipped his cup to drink. The wine tasted sweet as it flowed over his tongue. He swallowed, then said decisively, “They should be made to believe that he is dead.”
“That is no longer possible,” John answered. “Bishop Walter of Coutances has been in contact with him, and so has Eleanor.”
Irritated, Philippe drummed his fingers on the table. “And is there any chance of … an accident?”
John laughed. “He is too well guarded.”
“Damn.” Philippe muttered.
A hint of green flashed in John’s eyes. “Do you really wish my brother dead? I thought you only wanted to extend his imprisonment as long as possible.”
“Does it matter to either of us what happens, so long as he is kept from returning to England?” Philippe asked.
John looked away, ashamed to answer, for in his heart he agreed with Philippe. They drank in silence for a while, listening to the sound of wind stirring up ashes in the fire grate, and hounds growling over bones in the deepest recesses of the hall. John, who had the same taste for luxury as all of his brothers, looked around the vacant, echoing room and wondered how any man could bear to live in such a place. It was austere and ugly, stinking of mold from centuries of too much rain and river mist.
It was here, perhaps in this room, that young Henry Plantagenet had met Eleanor for the first time. John seemed to see it in his mind, as if it were a play and he was watching. But then another image took its place, and he saw a dying man upon a sickbed, weeping, his arms outstretched.
He closed his eyes and tried to think of happy things.
Philippe’s voice startled him. “The emperor will no doubt try to extort a fabulous sum from me in return for keeping Richard as his continual prisoner.” His voice went low and serious. “But I will have to pay it, there is no other way.” Once more the always nervous fingers tapped against the edge of the table. “Do you know if a price for his ransom has been set? Has your mother told you anything? Or anyone?”
John’s soft, girlish mouth was peevish. “No one will tell me anything,” he complained. Then suddenly his whole expression turned lively with mischievous intent as he grinned, “Can you believe it? They don’t trust my motives.”
Philippe didn’t smile. His gaze was unrelenting. “Can I?”
John swallowed his wine in gulps and fidgeted a little in his chair. Trust was on his mind too. Was Philippe really interested in helping him, or was this interview just a way of leading another Plantagenet into a trap?
Wine had made John bold enough to speak his mind. “I could ask the same of you,” he said to Philippe. “I’ve known you for so long and yet so little. I don’t know what to expect, or even if I can find it within myself to trust you.”
So he was not a complete fool after all.
Philippe nodded gravely, and reached across the table to lay his hand close over John’s. “Then know me better. Stay here with me in Paris for a while.”
John peered uneasily into his wine. “As a friend? A conspirator?” He paused for a moment. “Or something else?”
Philippe leaned back, arms folded behind his head. “What does it matter, so long as we achieve our purpose?”
“Our purpose is to be rid of Richard.”
“No, my friend,” Philippe corrected, “our purpose is to torment Richard.” He waited to see if John had understood his meaning. “I know your brother very well. He is vain. If he thought that you and I were lovers, it would give him something more to brood over while he sits in prison and waits for his throne to be pulled out from under him.”
John thought on that, then stumbled drunkenly to his feet.
“You’re right, you know,” he said and took the hand Philippe held out to him. “Let’s go to bed.”
After all the details of their treason had been agreed upon, Philippe left John behind in Paris and went off with his army to besiege the city of Rouen. First, he captured several of the border castles on the Norman march (including the fortress of Gisors), then overran Aumale and Eu.
The Norman resistance was beginning to crumble.
The tide of victory turned at Rouen, when the citizens opened the gates to Philippe’s army and bade them enter without fear of retaliation. It was a bluff thought up by Queen Eleanor (who had ordered it), but the French could not afford the challenge, lest a full army lay in ambush to capture them.
They would have to wait until another time to take Rouen.
Philippe emptied his wine casks into the river and withdrew.
No man needed an oracle to help him read th
e signs these days.
Prince John was living with his brother’s sworn enemy at the Cite Palais, and Philippe was busy taking bits of the wild Normandy frontier for himself. He gave several of the captured fortresses to John as a “token of his love” but the castellans refused to surrender the property of their rightful duke. Furious at the insult, John took a troop of Philippe’s soldiers north to have his way with those who had forbidden his claim.
Meanwhile, throughout the whole of France and England, thousands of pilgrims and fighting men were coming home from the crusade, and each one of them had a story to tell of Richard’s splendid bravery. Such tales contrasted greatly with the ugly stories of duplicity and pettiness which Philippe had told upon his return, in order that he might blacken Richard’s name.
But heroism won out in the end.
Opinion began to turn against the conspirators.
Emperor Henry VI had set the price of Richard’s freedom at one hundred fifty thousand silver marks—and suddenly everyone in England was scurrying to help collect the money. It was awkward at first. With all the counties and estates Richard had given him, John controlled nearly one third of England’s revenue. Without his cooperation it had seemed unlikely that such a vast amount of money could be got.
But Richard had more friends than he knew.
As the legend of his triumphs spread through villages and towns, the churches opened up their coffers willingly to share their wealth, and poorfolk came with meager offerings to help in purchasing their king’s release. These monies were given over to Hugh de Pudsey, the aging Bishop of Durham, who was Eleanor’s own choice to serve as a treasurer for the ransom.
Slowly, but with steadiness, the money pile grew.
Back in Paris, Philippe was getting nervous.
Hastening to strengthen his ties to John, he proposed to give him Alais as a bride. What better way for the French king to prove his contempt for Richard than to give the rejected Alais to his brother? Philippe gave only minor consideration to the fact that John was still married to Hadwisa, and Alais was securely locked away in the fortress of Rouen, closely watched by Eleanor’s guards.
Rumors of all this subversive strategy found their way back to Richard via the letters of his friends. He was hardly surprised. John, always so envious of his older brother’s domains and titles, was a perfect candidate for deeds of treason. But however bitter Richard felt about this latest series of events, he could not find it in his heart to blame John. Though his younger brother may have had the personality to aspire to evil, he did not have the resourcefulness to implement it.
Only one man could devise such a criminous scheme.
John had merely been the most recent victim of Philippe’s cold and ignominious charm. It flayed Richard to think of them together, hot with their passion and deceit. Oh, for the chance to face Philippe on a field of battle—to see the cowardly French monarch and his army put to rout!
But he would have to wait for that sweet satisfaction.
His only hope now was to separate John from Philippe. Richard knew his brother well enough to realize that he would not be swayed from his purpose by mere threats. Giddy with superficial power, he doubtless felt himself invulnerable to any warning words from Richard. John’s conceit always blinded him to anything but the closest dangers. But Philippe was a subtle and suspicious man who could be bribed by the promise of an easy conquest.
Immediately Richard drew up a treaty which ceded a portion of eastern Normandy to the French king, together with the promise of twenty thousand silver marks to be paid upon his return from exile. Richard sent off the document with hopes that it would satisfy Philippe’s ambition for a while. It was Capet’s nature to prefer lands gotten by extortion to those won by combat in the field.
Meanwhile, Richard waited for news of his release.
In the past month, the emperor had improved the conditions of his imprisonment. Richard was allowed to hold court now, and meet with emissaries from England. It was better than the harsh confinement he’d been forced to endure under Leopold: a drafty cell and bad food. But whatever the conditions, he was still a captive.
Each night he dreamed of freedom, and vengeance on his enemies.
Laughter.
Philippe could hear it in his council room, all the way from the great hall. He frowned in irritation. It meant that John was drinking with members of the household bodyguard again. Recently it seemed to be his only interest, that and hawking.
Later John came swaggering in with a falcon on his arm. “We’re going hunting,” he said, “do you want to come?”
Philippe gave a glance toward him, then bent once more to his paperwork. “I’m busy, John,” he grumbled. “Can’t you find anything more profitable to occupy your time?”
The pleasant expression turned instantly sour. “Hunting is a man’s occupation.”
The king shoved aside his papers with a grunt of aggravation. “John, you should be in Normandy with the army instead of here wasting time at court.”
John struck a bored pose. He had heard that from Philippe before. “Your cousin Robert of Dreux is there. He’s more a soldier than I am. Why should I go?”
Philippe tapped his knuckles on the table. Talking to John was sometimes no more rewarding than talking to a child. How like Harry he was. Logic had no part in his thinking. “Listen, John,” he said, “we need more than just the presence of an army there. It is your responsibility to try and win the Norman barons to our side.”
“I’ve tried that,” John complained, “but they don’t like me.”
The king’s patience was growing feeble, but he tried hard to keep his voice even. “Diplomacy is our insurance against war. We can’t risk another failure at Rouen, you know that! If Richard is kept away much longer, the barons will have no other choice but to accept you as their lord, and through that comes our chance to win the rest of Richard’s continental territories.” His voice rose to a sharp tone of reprimand. “So go and do what only you can do for our cause: negotiate!”
John shook the bird loose and watched it rise to the ceiling, and settle itself on a perch below the high window. Lucky fowl, to be so free of all constraints. John slumped to a stool. “Will you come with me?” he asked.
Philippe got to his feet and came to stand behind him, hands resting on John’s shoulders. “We have to be careful. We must preserve the appearance of caution. Pope Celestine has warned us that an invasion of Richard’s lands could bring the interdict upon us or even excommunication. He may be bluffing but we can’t be sure. So much depends on what the emperor is willing to do. Twice he’s driven up the price of keeping Richard prisoner. If I can see my way to paying him what he asks, we have no worries for a while.”
John tilted his head back to look up at Philippe. “I know.”
“Good.” Philippe bent to kiss his cheek. “Just remember: we are this close to getting everything we want.”
John sighed in admiration. Philippe was so practical, so smart! “When do you want me to leave?” he asked.
Philippe’s arms went tight around his friend’s shoulders. He managed a little laugh. “Stay the night here at least, for my sake.”
They talked some more and drank a toast to pledge eternal fellowship. As they kissed, Philippe sucked the wine from John’s mouth and swallowed it.
Two days later he smiled as John rode away to Normandy.
Philippe had not divulged the whole of his plot against Richard to the younger Plantagenet. There was more: a sweeping plan of conquest that could lift his own fortunes to the sphere of legend and end Angevin dominance forever.
Philippe was planning to invade England.
Two months ago he had concluded a crafty pact with Denmark’s King Canute. The alliance promised France free access to the shores of England from the Danish coast—ships, soldiers, and ten thousand silver marks—and all toward the purpose of invasion.
That was the prize.
The penalty was marriage to Cnut’s siste
r, Ingeborg.
Philippe knew nothing of her, only what he had been told by the ambassadors from Cnut’s court. They said she was beautiful (a probable exaggeration), well-educated, and blameless. She was close to twenty and had never been involved in a betrothal, which gave him a suspicion. But when Philippe was assured that she was blond, that, together with all the rest, convinced him.
Personally he was not anxious to take another wife. There was something vaguely unwholesome in making a vow when he still felt himself bound by vivid memory to Isabel. He could never hope to have again what he’d had with her. But the prize of this new marriage, the lure of triumph over Richard, was too strong to be ignored.
At the start of summer he went up to Amiens to meet his bride.
It was over almost before it had begun.
On August 14, 1193, Philippe married Ingeborg at the cathedral in Amiens—and by the following morning, after her coronation, he had changed his mind about the marriage. Without any explanation he ordered the ambassadors from Canute’s court to take the princess back to her own land.
He would not live with her as wife or queen.
William of Rheims begged his nephew to reconsider.
“You wanted this alliance very much,” he reminded Philippe.
The king was pacing back and forth across the floor and nervously wiping the sweat from his face with trembling hands. He was pale, on the edge of illness. William had never seen him look so disturbed.
“To hell with the alliance!” Philippe shouted. “I will not sacrifice myself to a piece of paper. I am a man, uncle. I have a man’s desires. And a treaty warms no bed at night.”
The Rain Maiden Page 67
