EPILOGUE
The Tower of London
August 1204
THE JUG EXPLODED against the wall, spraying those nearest with wine.
“I know what the problems are!” screamed King John. “Do you think I don’t?”
Richard de Percy—spattered from head to foot—wiped his eye and looked to Roger de Montbegon, who seemed about to speak, then thought better of it.
The King looked for something to hurl after it and turned on them again, his eyes wild.
“Problems, problems, problems!” he howled, flinging his cup, his fury so fierce that the surrounding barons, even armoured as there were, took a step back. “All you ever bring to my door are problems!” With the final word he turned over the table, the few remaining objects upon it—a platter, fruit, a knife—clattering and bouncing across the floor. “Well, let me tell you—I have no shortage of those. I am rich with those. What of answers? Who will bring me them? Does not one among you have the brains for it?” He paused for a moment, his eyes sweeping about the room. “Or is it the will you lack?”
Then he picked up a chair, and with a roar swung full circle and let it fly. The barons broke apart as it smashed against the council chamber wall, sending splinters of wood high into the air.
The problems that year had been many.
In March, Philip, the French king, had taken Château Gaillard. The key to the defence of Normandy and the Lionheart’s pride and joy, it had been deemed impregnable by Richard. He once said he could defend it were its walls made of butter.
In April, John’s mother, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had died. The last of her generation, an anchor during all the storms, she was the power behind three English thrones—and one French one.
In May, the city of Caen—burial place of the Conqueror—had surrendered to the French without a fight. Caen was one of the two cities upon which control of the region rested; Rouen was the other.
In June, Rouen—lacking the will to fight for John—had followed suit.
By August, the whole of Normandy—the once insignificant duchy which had conquered England and Sicily and given John’s father his claim to the English throne—had slipped through John’s fingers.
And they laughed at him. Lackland, they called him. Softsword.
Even now, Philip was striking into the very heart of Angevin territory, and was poised not only to take Poitou, but Anjou itself. The mighty empire that had been his father Henry’s lifelong labour was unravelling before John’s eyes, and it seemed there was nothing he could do to stop it.
It should have been possible. He had the forces, he had the will. But everywhere he was betrayed.
After the siege at Nottingham and the final reconciliation with Richard, he had served his brother loyally, right to the end. And while he was never the great military genius that his adored brother had been—his interests were too diverse, his tastes too broad—he had demonstrated he knew well enough how to deploy men, and how to lead them, too. He had shown it at Évreux, and at Gamaches. He’d shown it when he’d brought the English army within striking distance of Paris, and returned with the captured Bishop of Beauvais as a prize. He had shocked them all.
But how many of those now around him remembered?
Not one. It suited them to forget. In the relentless quest to demean him and his predecessor—to make the brilliant day of the dead king the brighter by extinguishing all light in the dark night that followed—even these achievements were now ascribed to Saint Richard the Lionheart.
John turned slowly around the chamber in the awkward silence, his eyes focused on nothing. “Get out,” he muttered.
De Percy took a step forward. “My lord, if we—”
John turned on him like a wild dog.
“GET—OOOOOUT!” He held on to the last syllable until his breath was spent, his mouth dripping venom, his face so red it looked fit to burst. Half the company had quit the room before the roar ended.
He stood, then, in the emptied chamber, gradually recovering his breath. The Angevin temper... It was known, even celebrated. Richard had it; his father Henry had it. Quite clearly, he had it too. It was the result, so it was said, of the Angevin dynasty being descended from the Devil. Old King Henry had liked that story. That being the case, how could anyone blame John for these histrionics? They were his inheritance.
He chuckled to himself. Spying a flask of wine that had escaped the mayhem by the fire, he hunted around for a cup—booting a pomegranate across the floor as he did so—found one, filled it, and gulped it down. That eased things a little. He filled it again. No, they couldn’t blame him; but they would anyway.
A sound made him stop, the cup at his mouth.
No servant would enter so soon after his outburst—they knew better. For a moment he thought it must be that bastard de Percy coming creeping back. If anyone would it was he, with some new argument, some new complication, some new problem. But de Percy, like the others, had left by the southwest stair. The sound—a footstep, he was sure of it—had come from the northern end of the chamber.
John squinted through the arches that joined this chamber to the next, trying to penetrate the shadows there. He could see nothing; hear nothing. And then one of the shadows stirred and began to approach.
It was black from head to foot, and immediately familiar.
“Welcome back to the White Tower, Sir Guy,” he said with a smile. Gisburne stopped and stood before him, his head slightly bowed. John looked about him at the broken, scattered objects. “Sorry about the mess,” he said.
The knight was dressed in the familiar, black horsehide coat, although this one looked brand new. A leather patch covered his lost left eye. He seemed hardly to have aged.
John chuckled to himself. “Well, I know better than to ask how you got in...”
“Do not let anyone blame the guards on duty,” said Gisburne.
“I’ll make certain of it. It’s my castle now, I can do as I like.”
Gisburne walked over to the table, righted it, then placed a heavy gold ring upon its top. John stepped forward to investigate.
“God’s teeth,” he said. “This is my personal seal. Where did you get it?”
“You gave it to me.”
“Did I?” John raised his eyebrows, struggling to recall. If he had, it must have been years ago. A decade, at least. “You could have been issuing writs and edicts in my name all this time...” Then he laughed to himself. “But you never would, of course. Truth be told, it was probably safer in your hands than mine.”
He gave a mirthless laugh, then gestured to the chaos of destruction about the chamber—which only now struck him as a symbol of the realm as a whole. “You’re not quite catching me at my best.” He gave a deep, shuddering sigh. “Normandy has decided they prefer to bend over for the French King than to fight for me, my barons openly snipe and criticise and not even my mother is around to quell them.”
“It’s worse than that,” said Gisburne flatly.
He smiled. “Well, it’s good to see you, too.” Turning the ring idly in his fingers, he stared for a moment at the knight’s face, half in shadow. A thousand questions jostled in his mind—but just one fought its way to the front.
“I said I would never call upon your services,” said John, “and I never have. Not in all these years. And in all that time you have never come to me. Why now?”
Gisburne lifted his head. “Because you’re going to need me,” he said.