A Pride of Kings (The Plantagenets Book 1)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘In God’s name, are these knights engaged in war, or beasts?’ William le Gras demanded of his uncle. ‘And where is the King?’

  William did not answer, only his fury rose. King Philip had won. He would take Château Gaillard and would win more, and William could see John losing all that his father had held. There was nothing for it but to retire, leaving the French victorious, and almost immediately the garrison capitulated. A few weeks later Philip took Rouen, the capital. The loss of lower Normandy, due entirely to the folly of their lord, made William at least look back longingly to the days of King Henry. Beaten as he had been at the end that King had nevertheless held his empire and after him Eleanor had fought for it for her sons. Now, worn out with grieving for Richard, and despairing at the loss of his castle, Eleanor’s strong spirit failed and in her own warm land of Aquitaine she surrendered to death. William mourned her deeply, left with an amethyst brooch and the memory of her kindness to a landless, penniless youth.

  With her passing John lost all the sense of purpose she had endeavoured to instil into him, shrugged at the loss of Normandy and turned his eyes towards England.

  ‘I tell you this,’ Gilbert of Clare said tartly, ‘we in England have no mind to waste men or money on John Softsword. He’s no stomach for war and no sense, and every time he crosses the channel it is only to deny our laws, and bleed us all. It would be a blessing if he choked on his own spleen.’

  William was in much the same mind but his strict code kept him silent. On John’s orders he went with Salisbury to Philip to ask for terms but the French King eyed him coldly and only asked, ‘Where is Arthur of Brittany?’

  Neither William nor Salisbury could answer. The only concession they obtained from Philip was a personal one – a year in which to pay homage to him for their own lands in upper Normandy. William rode to Longueville and visited his steward, ensuring all was well there before returning to England. There he and Will reported the failure of their mission and asked John’s permission to do the required homage. John seemed only half interested in what they were saying and gave a casual assent.

  ‘Coward! Coward!’ the words were flung at William. ‘Poltroon, aye and traitor too!’

  He stood his ground throughout the storm and when it subsided for a moment he faced the angry King and said carefully, ‘Sire, you are unjust. No man has ever called me coward in all my life.’

  ‘Coward you are! I say it again,’ John shouted. His face was puffy and as red with fury as his marshal’s was pale. His body had thickened now, the dark hair receding from his forehead, and his mood and tempers were even more uncertain.

  They were in his chamber in the palace of Westminster and he sat in his carved chair, one foot thrust out, his fingers twisting his expensive jewelled belt, rings on his hands and a rich clasp fastening his mantle. Standing by him were his two closest friends, William de Braose and Randulph de Blundevill, Earl of Chester. De Blundevill had quarrelled with his wife Constance of Brittany and shut her up in one of her castles there, and he seemed unperturbed by the fate of his stepson, Arthur. Now he looked merely amused by the attack on the Marshal.

  Hubert Walter was also there, standing by the window, and it was he who interposed now.

  ‘Your grace, I beg you to consider. It will be of no avail to attack the French from Poitou. King Philip is too strong by far.’

  ‘Your opinion was not asked for,’ John interrupted rudely. ‘You may have ridden to war once, my lord Bishop but you are old now and you give an old man’s advice.’

  ‘Sire!’ William broke in. ‘You have no cause to speak so to the bishop. He has served your house as I have, and have you forgotten it was he who got your brother’s army home from Syria? We who fought under King Richard know –’

  ‘Don’t speak of him!’ John banged his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘I know what you all think – you compare me with Richard. Richard! He thought of nothing but war, but I can be as good a man. I command you all to come with me into France and we will drive King Philip out of Normandy.’

  ‘My lord, I cannot,’ William said. ‘I have sworn fealty to Philip for my lands.’

  ‘Then you are a traitor.’

  ‘But you yourself, sire, gave me leave – and Salisbury too.’

  ‘I did not know you would act thus to my hurt – and as for giving leave, I don’t recall I was so specific.’

  If William had not been so disgusted he could have laughed at this. ‘I assure you, sire, we had your word. You said that we might both set our hands between Philip’s for –’

  ‘Liar!’ John spat the word at him. ‘Do you recall my saying so in so many words, de Braose?’

  The Lord of Bramber had been busy picking his teeth but he removed the stick from his mouth and said idly, ‘No, sire, I do not.’

  William gave him one sardonic glance. ‘Fortunately we do not have to depend on the doubtful word of the late castellan of Rouen.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing de Braose’s face darken and went on, ‘I am no liar, sire, as you well know and I am prepared to swear to your promise on the Holy Book or defend myself with my own body.’

  ‘Aye, you’ll do that,’ John retorted bitterly, ‘but you won’t risk it against the French.’

  ‘I’ll not break my oath. I never broke it to your father or to your brothers and I will not go to war against my suzerain for the appointed time of my homage.’

  Hubert Walter said in his tired voice, ‘Consider, sire. My lord of Pembroke is by all the laws of chivalry right in what he says, and I can only repeat my opinion that an expedition would be most hazardous at this moment.’

  ‘It is for me to decide that.’ The King glared at William and then added, ‘Oh go – for God’s sake, get out of my sight.’

  William bowed. He felt for the first time the weight of his years. To be upbraided thus, after a lifetime’s loyalty to the house of Plantagenet, was an insult hard to bear, but when he straightened he held himself stiffly erect. ‘Will you give me leave then, sire, to go into Ireland? I have never yet visited my wife’s inheritance and there has been trouble enough there that a strong hand would not come amiss.’

  ‘Yes, go.’ John indicated that de Braose should pour him some wine, which he drank off at one gulp. ‘God’s Blood, such arguing gives me a thirst, and I’ll be glad to be free of your moralising. But hear this, Marshal, you shall leave your eldest son – nay, your two eldest – as hostages for your good behaviour. I’ll have no man stabbing me in the back.’

  ‘My Lord!’ Hubert Walter was scandalised. ‘My lord of Pembroke’s reputation alone should assure you that he would never –’

  ‘Hold your peace. Hostages I will have, and at once.’

  William had stepped backwards involuntarily as the King rose and swept past him to the table where the wine jug stood and a bowl of fruit. He took a peach and began to suck it noisily, the juice dribbling down his chin.

  William had both hands clasped behind his back, shaken for the first time in his life with real fear as he sought for the right words. What could he say? How could he leave William, and young Richard with his fresh face and eager ways, to the mercy of this volatile unreliable man about whom he knew too much? His feelings must have been naked in his face for the King went on spitefully, ‘And since you are so lacking in trust of your King, I’ll have that squire you are so attached to – what’s his name, d’Erleigh? He can attend your boys.’

  ‘Sire, I must protest –’ William began, but fell silent again unwilling to anger John further, to rouse that venomous spirit to greater anger. The insults, the shame of false accusations mattered little compared to the safety of his children and, loath as he was to lose d’Erleigh, at least they would have a trusted friend with them. He glanced at Hubert Walter, seeing the Archbishop’s face grey with fatigue and anxiety, and then, finding no words he dared speak and repressing the desire to strike the silly King who was now exchanging a joke with de Braose, he bowed with dignity and left the room.

  The
indignation of his friends, Gilbert, Will Longsword, his nephews John and le Gras, were as nothing to Isabel’s reaction. When he broke the news in their chamber she became almost hysterical.

  ‘My lord, how could you let him have them? Dear God, what has come to you? You know what he is – are you turned the coward he called you?’

  ‘Isabel! You know it is not so.’ The hurt at her words was submerged in concern as he tried to take her in his arms, but her body was rigid, her hands clenched. ‘He will not dare to harm them.’

  ‘After what he did to his own nephew?’

  ‘We do not know – ‘

  ‘Oh!’ she raised her fists against his chest in impotent grief and fury. ‘William, you cannot be so blind. Of course we know – all Christendom knows. Arthur is dead, murdered by that dreadful man, de Braose, or by the King himself. You know John d’Erleigh said he had spoken to a squire who swore that he saw the King come from the tower at Rouen with blood on his hands. Everyone knows at least that he was guilty of ordering it – and you will leave our boys with him!’

  ‘He has other hostages for good behaviour. Windsor is full of children he holds for lords of lesser degree than myself, and he dare not antagonise us all. There is resentment against him in England as it is.’

  ‘He is crazy enough to dare anything to get his own way.’ Suddenly her rigidity collapsed and she sank against her husband, sobbing, her face pressed into his chest ‘We will never see them again, I know it.’

  ‘Of course we will.’ He spoke with a confidence he was far from feeling and the hand which he put up to smooth her hair shook, his other arm closing about her shoulders. ‘My love, my dear heart, do you think I don’t feel as you? But what are we to do? We must trust to Hubert Walter and to Gilbert and others of our friends to keep a watchful eye on the boys. And d’Erleigh would let himself be torn in pieces before he allowed anything happen to them.’

  ‘Do you think the King would hesitate to slay John if the mood was on him? Oh, William, William, I am afraid.’

  He held her close, not knowing how to comfort her, and for a while they stayed locked in each other’s arms. He thought of his other boys, of Gilbert, whom he cared for least, who because of his dislike of the martial training had now left his godfather’s service and entered the schools in Paris where he might take minor orders, of Walter who was still young enough to be at home at Pembroke but was growing up sturdily and showing signs of wanting to follow in his father’s footsteps – at least Gilbert was safe and Walter he would take to Ireland with his daughters. Matilda had developed into a pretty girl with pleasing manners and was utterly devoted to her father and the thought of her brought a warm glow to William’s face. She was the delight of his life and he had recently betrothed her to Hugh Bigod, whom he liked. He would not for any material reason have given this darling child to any man he did not trust. Isabella had long been promised to Gilbert’s son, and Sybilla to Earl Ferrers’ eldest boy, good marriages which should secure their future. He had reason to be proud of his growing family and his hopes for William and Richard were lacerated by the King’s decree. To imagine them held at the will of the unstable John was a picture he could not shut from his mind, nor could he forget his last sight of the seventeen-year-old Arthur of Brittany, chained and threatened, nor Hubert de Burgh’s horrifying story. And what worse thing had befallen Arthur before he died?

  Isabel was still sobbing but quietly now. As if she had read his thoughts she gasped out, ‘They will disappear as Arthur did. Don’t you see – you have destroyed them by your pride. Why couldn’t you do what John wanted? What does King Philip matter? He was always our enemy.’

  William stood stiffly, his arms still about her. ‘He does not matter, but my word does. All men know that once given I keep it. Should I sacrifice my honour now?’

  ‘To save our children? Yes!’

  ‘I do not know that it would, nor that we shall lose them if I keep it. But I have no choice.’

  Her sobs broke out again. ‘You have – you have – only you are too proud.’

  He gave a heavy sigh. ‘Isabel, you do not understand. My love for William and Richard is not in question, you know that, but my honour is and I will not break my word.’

  She struggled free of him and stumbled away to the bed where she sank down clinging to the bed post. ‘It is you who do not understand. The lives of our children are all that matters, and you will give them to that devil. They say he never goes to the Sacraments, he cares nothing for God and His Holy church. Why should he care if he murders? They were all devils – all the princes of Anjou.’

  He stayed where he was, not attempting to go to her. ‘Not as John is. The Old King and my own master would not have acted as John has.’

  She made an impatient gesture. ‘Then why – ?’

  ‘He is the King,’ William said and did not know how stern he sounded. ‘He is the King, Isabel.’

  For a moment there was a bleak silence, an immeasurable distance seeming to separate them. Then he crossed the mere yard that it was and stood above her though he did not touch her. There were tears in his own eyes now. ‘Dear love,’ he said, ‘we have had so much joy together – don’t let this separate us now.’

  His quiet voice, all the severity gone, reached out to her and rising she went once more into the security of his arms. ‘Forgive me, forgive me, my lord. When all is said it is you who are my heart, my life. We will pray together, to Our Blessed Lady – she will keep them safe.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘safe –’ and thought, even if ‘safe’ should mean out of this wretched world where men such as John could wield such power over men’s lives. But he did not speak the words. Instead he bent to kiss her mouth and as she raised her arms to entwine them about his neck he thought suddenly of Stoke d’Abernon and the little river and those golden summer days. If sorrow came to them now, there had been joy before, and both would bring them closer together than at the untried beginning. And later, when they knelt together in the light of candles before a statue of the Blessed Virgin in the chapel, his petitions for his children were mingled with thanksgiving for the gift of such a wife.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Mountainous waves hurling themselves against the ship drove Isabel into the small cabin, her children and attendants crowded in with her, Joanna clinging to her mother’s knees and the baby Anselm crying loudly. The Irish Sea heaved and fell and the sailors, expecting every moment, to be hurled into the angry waters, clung to the ropes gabbling their prayers, hardly able to hear the orders of the captain. He stood with the Earl of Pembroke, both holding fast to the mast, the wind driving the spray at them until they were soaked to the skin. William’s cloak blew out behind him and his hood from his grey head so that the hair was plastered to his forehead.

  ‘How much longer?’ he called out against the noise of the wind and the sea.

  ‘About half an hour, God willing,’ the captain shouted back, ‘That is, if we can make harbour.’

  They were bound for Milford Haven, the weather calm enough when they had sailed from Wexford, but this storm had blown up during the night and now seemed likely to engulf them all.

  ‘God and His Saints preserve us,’ William said and the captain gave an amen to that, adding, ‘I’ve seen worse and come through it, my lord, but I’m sorry for your lady and the little ones. Hold, you there! Mind that sheet.’

  Clinging to whatever came to hand, William left him to his task and made his way to the cabin set aft. There he found Isabel seated on a stool, Joanna in her arms, while the wet-nurse, her rosy Irish face pale now with terror, suckled the baby in an attempt to quiet him. Jehan, old and grizzled but as faithful as ever, was holding Walter’s head over a basin, and the other two girls, Sybilla who was ten and the eight-year-old Eva, clung together, the elder trying to comfort the younger whose face was wet with tears.

  ‘Come now, ‘William said cheerfully, ‘the captain tells me we shall soon be in port and then our own barge will take us home
to Pembroke.’

  ‘Home!’ Isabel exclaimed and raised her head. ‘It has not been that for a long time.’

  ‘I know.’ The ship gave a violent lurch, Joanna howled and Isabel steadied herself against the wall as Jehan and Walter tumbled together to the floor. William picked up the sick boy while Jehan found a cloth to clean up the mess. ‘There, child, you will be better soon,’ he added as Walter, exhausted, lay against his father’s shoulder, his stomach still heaving.

  ‘Jesu!’ William gave Isabel a reassuring smile. ‘What a crossing. I’ve never known it so before.’

  Isabel looked up at him out of tired eyes, enlarged by her desperate anxiety. ‘It is the curse – I know it. You remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ he answered rather shortly, ‘but it was nonsense. God does not attend to the mouthings of a tiresome old man, even though he be a bishop. Our Blessed Lady will bring us safe home.’ But he spoke with rather more confidence than he felt as the wind buffeted the straining timbers.

  These last years in Ireland had been a mixture of pleasure and annoyance. In many ways William had been glad to be out of England. Hubert Walter had died nearly eight years ago, shortly after he had been forced to give William and Richard as hostages, and the King had crossed swords with the Pope over the election of a new Archbishop of Canterbury. The quarrel had come to such a pitch that it brought England under Interdict. Innocent III set aside John’s choice of his friend the Bishop of Norwich as well as the monks of Canterbury’s own choice of one of their brethren, and determined that Stephen Langton, a brilliant and scholarly Englishman, should sit in Augustine’s chair. John did not like Langton and swore to hang him if he set foot in England and Langton remained at Pontigny where so many years ago, William remembered, Thomas Becket had sheltered from King Henry’s wrath.