Robert watched the St. George mooring at the London Temple docks. The grey Thames oozed by. Across the river, much of the Southwark Stews was being rebuilt. Beyond the slummy suburbs were hedged fields, orchards, forests, and villages interspersed with the occasional castle tower and church spire.
Robert grinned at Captain Edward berating his crew. Emilio was the only who dared argue back. Three cloaked figures walked down the gangway, heading for Lord Chancellor Peter and his royal steward. The tall, handsome one in the jade cloak trimmed with garnet was strumming a lute and humming happily. The other two were a matched set in overlarge cloaks of dusk grey.
“Just do as I told you and all will be well,” Peter assured Robert.
As they approached, the humming took on the melody of a popular song.
“And Softsword sheathed his crooked dirk, in Angouleme while Normandy burned.” He sang the last line with a wicked grin and emerald eyes boring into Peter. His light brown hair was sun streaked and framed a confident face with a close cropped beard. His body was stronger than his voice, which was deep and booming in Occitan tinged French. The velvets and linens, silks and fine leathers bespoke nobility; while the exquisite sword and dagger sang he was more than a troubadour. Indeed, he was John’s Grand Senescahl of Aquitaine.
Peter started clapping and Robert grew very confused.
“Savaric le Rapscallion, you are the only man in the Realm who can get away with that.” Peter walked forward, his enormous gold chancellor’s seal and chain glaring in the sunlight.
Savaric laughed as they hugged and gave one another the Kiss of Peace on each cheek.
“But don’t try it at Court,” Peter warned.
“Tis been too long, Peter l’Rock.” Savaric grinned and hugged him again, “Twas just yesterday you were Lionheart’s scribbler and I his squire.”
Peter the Rock, for certes, stone cold.
“Oh, the trouble we made,” Peter chuckled. “Now tell me you didn’t lose your seneschal’s seal to some snatch with loose fingers and a juicy purse.”
“Peter,” Savaric sounded wounded. “I’d never let a whore come between me and my seal, but Isaac the Jew was about to set his golems on me.”
Savaric smacked Peter on the shoulder and smiled at Robert, “You must be Peter’s new quill. What’s he promised you, Canterbury? Non, that’s for him. Which one’s the second church here? I forget.”
“York m’lord,” Robert said nervously, “but. . .”
“Ah, good news for you then, the archbishop ascended a few weeks ago. The office is now open.”
Robert’s jaw dropped.
One of the grey cloaks pulled back the hood. Sisters of the Order of Fontevrault wore a white tunic, trimmed in black, with a black waist belt. A white wimple and black veil covered her head. Robert just barely saw her face through the gauziness. She was smiling.
“Savaric, we’ve just arrived and you already have these poor souls flustered.” Her French was honey sweet and mountain stream pure, “Lord Chancellor, mayhap we should retire for refreshments before we settle down to business.”
“For certes sister, follow me.”
Peter and Savaric headed for the Temple as sailors and serving brothers from the Temple set to unloading St. George. Robert smiled at the Bride of Christ and at the monk who was pushing his hood back. Fontevrault was one of the few Orders for both men and women. The nun followed after Peter and Savaric, the monk falling in behind her.
Robert caught up with her. “Forgive me, I’m Master Robert de London, Steward for the Church, and you must be . . .”
“Sister Maud of Fontevrault,” She hooked her arm and waited for Robert to scoop it.
He was taken aback, but took her arm nonetheless.
“His majesty does not deign to greet his trusted Grand Seneschal of Aquitaine and envoy of Fontevrault, his childhood home and school?” Maud asked.
“The king is hosting Prince Alexander of Scotland,” Robert explained.
“And is Prince Alexander paying homage?” Sister Maud speculated.
“Oui,” Robert agreed, “And more. Tis not every fourteen year old knighted by a king and betrothed to a princess.”
Who’s already been offered to a Saracen king.
“Twill not do to have a squire for a king should William die,” Sister Maud reasoned.
“Just so,” Robert was pleasantly surprised.
“You mentioned betrothal?” Maud asked.
“He’s to marry Princess Joan.”
Maud’s elbow twitched.
“Did something happen to Prince Llewellyn of Wales?”
“Non, you’re thinking of Joanna, King John’s . . . ah, natural daughter. Joan’s. . .”
Maud patted his hand, “His infant daughter, my mistake. So twill be some time before the wedding.”
“I’d say so,” Robert chuckled.
Who is this nun?
“Have you news of the Iberian Crusade, perchance?” Robert queried.
“The Iberians won a miraculous victory!” Maud patted his fingers. “God bless them, they stopped the Moors at a place called Las Navas de Tolosa just a fortnight ago. We’ve been told the whole Moorish army is fleeing back into Granada.”
“God Bless the Iberians,” Robert was deeply impressed and utterly boggled with Maud.
Peter led them past the London Temple’s dorms, refectory, and chapter house to the majestic round nave of the Temple church. It was the only church of its kind in England, resembling the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Once Savaric handed over his weapons, Peter led them inside to a chapel where two Temple sergeants were standing before the entrance. The guard’s eyes bulged at sight of Sister Maud, but said nothing. They nodded at Peter and let them enter.
“You have courage, Peter!” Savaric admired the sparse solemnity of the chapel, especially the flagon of mead sitting on a tray with four goblets. “A nun in the Temple. How angry they must be with you.”
“They’ll keep it secret,” Peter waved dismissively.
“Now where’s the fun in that?” Savaric commented over his shoulder as he poured.
“Enough of this then,” Maud took off the cloak and handed it to her monk, then removed the veil and wimple as well. She was a woman child, a maiden on the verge of marriage were she not a nun. Something was familiar about her, the button of her nose, the line of her jaw, the swell of cheekbone. Robert couldn’t quite place her, but was certain the plaited raven hair and stormcloud eyes were distracting him from the truth.
Savaric offered full goblets to Peter, Robert, and Maud then shrugged at her monk.
“To a pleasant journey under God’s grace,” Maud raised her goblet.
“Don’t let Innocent hear you say that,” Savaric couldn’t resist as they tapped cups.
“So what news have you from Aquitaine?” Peter looked to Savaric.
“What no hugging and kissing?” Savaric eased his long limbs onto a wooden chair as out of place in the chapel as the mead. “Ah, Peter you haven’t changed, straight to the juicy purse as always. Now, I won’t say I know John as as well as I knew his brother, but he’s certainly not a connaisseur of sloppy seconds.”
Peter stared expectantly.
Savaric relished the mead.
“M’lord Seneschal,” Robert broke the silence. “The Welsh have risen in revolt despite a peace treaty signed just last summer. King John has twenty eight Welsh princes hostage and still their fathers rebel. The Irish are up to their usual shenanigans, and the English countryside is astir with the predictions of a mad hermit claiming John will die before Michaelmass.”
“I will not have you feed the Court more wine before a bear baiting.” Peter rested his elbows on his knees, rolling the goblet between his palms.
“Am I to lie, then?” Savaric asked.
“What needs a lie?”
“Agenais, that magnificent bastard Simon Montfort has taken the ‘Barbican to Bordeaux’ and burned every heretic he’s found.”
“That damned Norman turncloak! I thought he was all but done for,” Peter swigged back his mead, got up and paced. “I thought you and Duke Raymond expelled him from Occitaine?”
Savaric shrugged, “Twas last year. Montfort’s nothing if not persistent.”
“Then why aren’t you marching on Agenais now?”
“You beckoned,” Savaric spread his arms, “I came.”
Peter went to the altar and poured himself more mead. “Will he extend his Heretic Crusade into Aquitaine? Is his crusade simply a mask for Philippe’s war against us?”
“I think not,” Savaric mused, offering up his goblet for a refill. “He’s left one of his captains in Agenais with a strong company, but is already heading back east. Duke Raymond is trapped inside Tolouse and Montfort intends to finish him. I have a letter from Raymond calling for aid from John.”
“Non,” Peter muttered, “We have enough troubles without adopting his.”
“Tis worth considering,” Savaric gestured as Peter refilled his goblet, “If Raymond loses Tolouse there’s no one in Occitaine between Montfort and Bordeaux but me. For certes, the Lusignans won’t come to John’s aid. Montfort has the support of King Philippe and Pope Innocent. I’d not be surprised if they discover some reason to merge the Heretic Crusade with the war against John, as you said.”
“Mayhap,” Peter swayed his cup and sighed, “but we cannot fight tomorrow’s war today.”
“So you speak for the king now?” Savaric jibed and Peter shot him an annoyed glance.
“I know John well enough to say he’s more concerned about Philippe invading England.”
“Don’t forget the Welsh rebellion,” Robert pipped.
“Or the Irish shenanigans,” Maud smiled.
Robert grinned at her.
Savaric shrugged and stretched his neck till it popped. “Shall I march on Agenais when I return?”
“We’ll let John decide,” Peter drained his goblet and put it back on the tray, “Rest assured, Montfort will pay for Agenais. He’s Viscount of Leicester after all.”
An awkward silence assailed them.
“And what of Aquitaine, all is restive?” Peter chuckled, for it never was.
“As it happens, most of the feisty barons are in Iberia. The crusaders have won a great battle against the Moors. Apparently King Sancho’s Castilians cut through the caliph’s bodyguard, who surrounded his pavilion and chained themselves together. Al Nasir fled and it turned to slaughter. The barons should be quite sated upon their return.”
“Or bloodthirsty,” Peter brooded.
Savaric hummed a melody Robert had never heard.
“Oh stop it,” Peter feigned irritation.
“There is, perchance, another tidbit worth mentioning,” Savaric dangled bait.
“Oh?” Peter found the hook.
“Marcel Bastillion is dead, killed by Felix d’Fenyx.”
Peter’s eyes slit, “Dog piss, you executed Felix four years ago, sent me a vial of his cursed blood.”
“I did,” Savaric agreed, “Yet his eldest son, who was hostage, ward and squire to our Viscount of Viamont fancied Marcel’s latest plight troth. Bastillion discovered them trysting and ended up at the bottom of his own well, with his own dagger in his own heart.”
“Another Hellspawn Fenyx,” Peter gritted, “A renewed blood feud between those two houses . . .”
“Civil war, as well I know,” Savaric stood, went to the open doorway and peered out, then turned back. “Archbishop Guy and I have dealt with it sufficiently, we believe.”
“And how have you stopped this spark from flaring into an inferno?”
Savaric grinned and shrugged, “As liege lord of Fenyx and justiciar of Acquitaine, Guy passed judgement on the boy; well man boy, he’s sixteen and already as big as his father was. Anywho, Guy sentenced him to a Trinity Crusade.”
“A what?” Peter, Robert, and Maud asked in tandem.
Savaric hummed the tune again, “Felix is exiled from Aquitaine until he has proven himself on three different crusades to atone for the shame he’s brought on all three Houses: Fenyx, Bastillion, and Tiamat.”
“Tiamat!” Peter choked on mead, “The girl was a Tiamat?”
“Valeria Tiamat,” Savaric confirmed, “She’s more beautiful than Queen Isabelle.”
“Then keep her out of England,” Robert muttered and Maud tittered.
“What was that?” Peter turned on Robert.
“Nothing,” Robert shrank against the wall.
“Christ’s bloody nails,” Peter bit his lip, “Forget civil war, this could end up as anarchy.”
“If the boy survives three crusades and returns whole.”
“And what of the girl? How did you handle her? Is her mother mollified?”
“At first, we were thinking Fontevrault,” Savaric glanced at Maud, “But then we decided the nunnery at La Reole more suitable, at least until . . .”
Peter nodded his head, “Well done. God’s balls, let’s hope that’ll do. What?”
“Felix was in Iberia, that’s one down.”
“Then let us pray he martyred himself,” Peter passed a wary glance at Robert, resting his eyes upon Maud, “And what of Poitou, my dear?”
Maud took her third sip from her first cupful. “Prince Louis is at Angers, launching chevauchees at Poitiers, Chinon, and Nantes. Many Poitevan barons are offering payments for peace rather than risk losing their estates to the sword and torch.”
“And what is Hubert doing about it?” Peter balled his hands into fists then poured himself another cup of mead.
“The Lord Seneschal is our hound to Louis’ foxes, but wherever he hunts they go to ground then reappear somewhere else.”
Peter gazed at Savaric, “Tell me your uncle and siblings aren’t bribing Louis.”
“They aren’t bribing Louis,” Savaric put down the cup, grabbed his lute and started tuning.
Peter, with his grimace, feral eyes, dark roots and fading sun locks, looked like a lion about to pounce.
“Tis not all,” Maud regained the chancellor’s attention, “King Philippe’s marshal is raiding Flanders from Artois.”
Peter rubbed at his brow, “Christ’s holy holes, this is why we’re not at Court.”
“Come now, Peter, tis not all that bad,” Savaric strummed a spritely chord. “Poitou, Flanders, Tolouse, Iberia; the French are far too busy to invade England . . . this summer.”
“There’s more,” Maud teased, “But I was taught a lady shouldn’t give up all her secrets to the first gentleman who flirts with her.”
Savaric strummed an ominous chord. “And Softsword sheathed his crooked dirk, in Angouleme while Normandy burned.”
. . .
Robert’s heart was racing as fast as his mind. He was working rosaries through his fingers, bead after bead. The ravens sounded like they were laughing at him. He’d lost Savaric and Maud.
“Escort them to Fitzpeter’s Tower,” Peter told Robert. The Lord Chancellor always referred to the White Tower of London as ‘Fitzpeter’s’. “Keep them entertained until I arrive with John. I’ll take a handful of Fitzpeter snoops to the Crown Court any day.”
They were right behind Robert while walking through the Thamesgate from the docks. The sergeants were familiar with Robert and bowed their heads respectfully. He asked about one’s sore ankle and another’s sick boy. Entering the inner bailey, Robert paused as Maud and Savaric caught up to him.
The White Tower was a massive square keep with square corner towers and a semicircular protrusion along half the east side. The grey edifice was over a hundred feet tall and even wider. Each window curved up to elegant arches-within-arches, all bordered in whitewashed limestone. Facing the river, limestone steps led up to a forebuilding, serving as the main entrance.
“What do you think?” Robert asked Maud.
She appraised the keep, guesthouse, stables and workshops against the tall curtain walls, the gardens and animal pens, the bestiary and hawks’ mews; all the servants hustling about, squires sparring against the quintaine, sergeants guarding walls and doors. “Nice.”
“Nice?” Robert was perplexed.
“Chinon rises above the river on a white cliff and is all of white stone. Tis quite beautiful for a castle, twas King Henry’s favorite back in the day I’m told.”
“Back when it wasn’t Philippe’s,” Savaric couldn’t resist.
“Oh,” Robert wasn’t expecting her to be underwhelmed.
A gaggle of children exited the forebuilding, followed by a handsomely buxom nursemaid. The Fitzwalter brothers and their wives, their sister Christiana and Will Mandeville, Fitzwalter and his wife Gannora, came out and congregated. A man who looked like Fitzwalter ten years younger, but with flaxen hair, emerged with a man and woman Robert didn’t recognize. Will’s stepmother, Lady Aveline de Clare, emerged with her teenage children. Then Geoff Mandeville, Will’s older brother, exited with Matilda Fitzwalter; the baron’s eldest daughter and Aveline’s favorite lady-in-waiting.
Geoff pulled her into his arms, kissed her deeply, and held her tight.
“Dare a game of Hazard?” A tall shadow coming up on Robert’s left inquired.
“Sir Adam!” Robert replied, and they shook arms. Four boys orbited either side of him.
“Let’s see if I remember,” Robert tapped his cheek then pointed at the tallest one, all long limbs and pokey joints. “You must be Alfred and you are . . .” He swatted his finger towards the solid one with scruffy black hair and a quiet mouth, “Joe.”
Robert nodded to the other two boys, “Sour Frey and Honey Tongue Owain. This is quite a host you’ve assembled, Adam.”
The boys smiled.
“Good day your grace,” Alfred greeted him.
Joe bowed his head. Frey scowled and Owain whistled.
Adam patted his son’s head. “He’s a master not a grace, boy, a Crown steward even if he dresses like your Granpa. Why don’t you show Robert what you have?”
Alfred frowned, his hand lifting to his chest. Robert recognized the gesture and resisted the urge.
“Oh come now,” Adam tousled the boy’s hair, “Who do you think I got it from?”
Alfred looked up at Robert with new respect. He pulled a ribbon from underneath his linen lined leather jerkin and revealed the gold Al Nasir.
Robert handled the coin in the pleasant warmth of the day’s sun. He smiled at Alfred. “This is a very special coin. Your Papa’s done right by you.”
Alfred beamed up at his very own bear.
“Oh, I’m so daft, Sister Maud, Lord Sav . . .” Robert twisted to introduce his charges, but they were gone.
Robert looked at Adam with confusion. “Did you see the pair behind me?”
“Pair?” Adam asked then looked down at the boys.
Joe shrugged, Alfred and Owain were staring at Lady Aveline’s daughters, Frey furrowed his brow.
Matilda let go of Geoff and shambled toward’s her family, a shell of a woman immediately embraced by her mother, surrounded by Christiana, Anne, and Ida. Geoff looked like he was watching her die. They all did.
Robert looked in every direction. His heart was quivering and bowels shivered, nervous fingers found rosaries.“Bloody Hell.”
. . .
Robert entered the White Tower’s top floor solar room, otherwise known as Lady Aveline’s Court. He was relieved to see Savaric by the western windows where the light was good. Savaric was strumming his lute and singing ‘Eleanor’s Escape’; a song about Eleanor of Aquitaine evading the Counts of Blois and Nantes, who wanted to kidnap and marry her as Eleanor returned home from divorcing King Louis VI of France. Owain was beside Savaric, plucking a pure melody on a small harp, eyes on the noble troubadour’s hands, ears open to everything.
Lady Aveline de Clare of Essex was surrounded by her two daughters, handmaidens, ladies in waiting, a chaplain, her favorite ladies of London and Essex, and a handful of young sirs striving for attention. Aveline wore a scarlet silk headscarf and a pale yellow linen dress with silken roses blooming upon it. Her ladies and handmaidens followed Aveline’s lead.
Robert felt the tension tighten in him instantly. Nowhere did he see the Bride of Christ. He made himself patient, if not calm, as he mingled. The shutters were open and glowing with light, mint and rosemary blended with the hay rushes on the floor, and the walls were covered with vivid tapestries of miracles and feasts. When Savaric was finished and the applause died down, Robert stepped forward and bowed.
“M’lord, I hate to interrupt such a fine gathering, but may I speak with you in private?”
“We’re all friends here, Master Robert.” Savaric smiled and strummed a jangly refrain.
There was giggling, blushing, and whispering. Many of the girls and women were batting their lashes at Savaric, sighing, discussing which song they wanted him next to sing. Robert resisted the urge to shout at them to shut up, this was serious.
“Perchance you know of Sister Maud’s whereabouts?” Robert asked delicately.
Savaric strummed haunting chords and shook his head, “Non. Have you tried St. John’s chapel? She is a nun after all.”
There was more giggling and chuckling at Savaric’s ease and Robert’s consternation.
“Her cleric Foulqes is there now, praying she’ll be found without incident,” Robert said tersely. He’d also checked the wharves, gardens, bestiary and mews, guesthouse, kitchens and Justiciar’s Court.
The crowd burst into laughter.
Enough playing the fool.
“I’m going to make the rounds again. If you see her. . .”
“I will most certainly inform her you wish to see her,” Savaric cut him off then started singing, “In emerald Eyrie lived Princess Isolde, a gentle young lady who rivaled the sun, for sake of such beauty and ending the war, to King Mark of Cornwall she was rightly betrothed.”
Girls young and old started clapping, a coo here, a sigh there. Owain plucked his lyre and hummed the familiar melody of ‘Tristan & Isolde’. One of the handmaidens put down her sewing and began to play a flute. Robert stalked off. The flutist was the only one watching him leave. She she seemed heartily amused. Savaric winked at her and kept singing.
. . .
Robert felt he might vomit.
God, I’m doomed. I shall have no fear as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, thy rod and staff they comfort me. . .
The Crown barge was disgorging King John, Lord Justiciar Fitzpeter, Lord Chancellor Peter, Lord Forester Neville, Earl Longsword, Count Ranulf of Chester, his sisters Lady Mabel and Agnes, with their husbands Earl Arundel of Sussex and Earl Ferrers of Derby. The odd man among the group was silver maned and clean shaven Liam Valognes, Lord Chamberlain of Scotland. John and Fat Ferrers were limping. Ranulf was short and fair haired like Agnes, slim and serious faced like Mabel. Bulky sergeants carried Fitzpeter in a chair designed to be carried on stout poles, his skin nearly as pale as the hair left on his wrinkled head.
Robert saw Peter scanning the welcome crowd with displeasure.
“Your majesty,” Geoff and Will Mandevile, Aveline, Robert, and Savaric bowed low. The ladies in waiting, hand maidens, visitors, servants, sergeants and knights in attendance bowed even lower.
“Savaric de Mauleon!” King John announced gleefully, “Hide your women friends. The Rapscallion is loose in England!”
“Troubador’s fight over him, knights sing of him, and the ladies faint for him,” Longsword extrapolated.
“Aveline, don’t tell me he’s already found a place in your Court.” Fitzpeter teased his wife tiredly.
She curtsied demurely, “Twas merely a courtesy, m’lord, a most pleasant courtesy.”
The group burst into chuckles and laughter, giggles and guffaws. Peter kept scanning the crowd, rabid eyes falling on Robert repeatedly. There was no Bride of Christ among them.
“Your majesty, I heard what passes for minstrelsy in England was putting the ladies to sleep.” Savaric played along, “I vow to put things right.”
“Every father’s fear born true,” Fat Ferrers slapped his belly and laughed.
The two groups mingled, exchanging pleasantries, catching up on family affairs.
Peter stalked Robert down, “Where’s Maud?”
“She . . . uh . . . I . . .” Robert stammered.
“You lost the nun,” Peter whispered with a whip’s sting.
“I can explain,” Robert stalled.
Peter curled his hands into fists, “I thought I could trust you. Christ wept blood, how am I to tell the king? I know. . .you tell him.”
Robert paled and trembled, his heart leapt into his throat, his stomach fell into his bowels, his lungs clung to his ribs, and the secret letter burned. The Crown seal strangled Robert as he stood there, paraylyzed with fear.
Your majesty, I lost a Bride of Christ, your envoy from Fontevrault.
“I’ll find her.” Robert decided to look again.
“Exactly,” Peter agreed.
“Papa!” A girl’s voice screamed in delight. A handmaiden appeared on the steps of the forebuilding, smiling brighter than the sun, cheeks flushing hotter than Hellfire.
“My little Maud?” John shouted.
Maud squeeled and rushed down the steps. The crowd parted, everyone looking to someone for recognition. Maud snuggled into John’s arms and squeezed him tight. The king laughed and kissed the top of her head.
“God’s teeth, but you’ve grown! When last we were together you were but a pixie, and now look at you! You’re a young woman!”
“We wanted to surprise you,” Peter sidled up to Savaric.
Robert gasped and gaped.
The raven hair, the steel eyes, I should’ve seen it!
Lady Aveline turned to Savaric and frowned, “Your cousin?”
Savaric smiled innocently.
I hate him.
“You could’ve told me,” Robert muttered to Peter as everyone made their way through the forebuilding.
“I could’ve left you a scribbler.”
. . .
Robert spread fine sand on the last lamb skin letter and watched the wet ink soak up. His hand ached, his eyes blurred and burned, his head swirled. Robert cat stretched in the cushioned chair, his back resisting and relishing the strain. Peter was slouched over the table, snoring as his head cradled in the folds of his arms. On the far end of the table Underchancellor Ricardus Marsh Chambersteward Ralphus de Neville were knocked out.
The council went long into the small hours. Maud provided her father with a copy of a letter from Prince Llewellyn of Wales to King Philippe of France, agreeing to an alliance and a coordinated strike against the Plantagenet Realm’s extremeties. Once John read it, crumpled it, fumed, and cursed everyone he’d ever feared or hated, they discussed what to do. John was unequivocal.
Tepid grey light crept through the unshuttered windows of the small solar just off from Lady Aveline’s Court. Nate Fitzroy and Bill Marshall were cuddled in a corner among Bollocks and John’s bulldogs. The brazier’s held embers, most of the candles melted down and tapers burned out.
Robert leaned over and shook Peter’s arm. The Rock jerked awake with a bridge of drool slinking from his lip to a spit pond on the table. He blinked his eyes hard and rubbed at them with his palms. Peter reached for the flagon on the table, but knocked it over.
“Fie!” He cursed, but it was empty.
Robert couldn’t hold it in any longer and started laughing.
“Mary’s juicy purse,” Peter groused as he swiped the drool bridge. “Show me what you have.”
Robert handed him a letter. “For King William of Scotland, congratulating him on Alexander’s knighthood and betrothal, assuring him the hostage princesses are well, and demanding 1500 sergeants for liege service.”
Peter put the letter down, grabbed the flagon and dragged it under the table, sighing at the waterfall.
“Well?”
Robert slid over the next one. “For Count Ferdinand and Countess Ana of Flanders, damning Prince Louis for capturing them after their wedding in the presence of King Philippe then claiming Artois as the price of freedom, praising the alliance against France, commending their last shipment of woolens, encouraging them to reclaim Artois, requesting 1500 sergeants, and the generous sum his majesty is willing to pay for six months service.”
As Peter’s piss faltered, he wiggled and it gushed again. He stared at Robert expectantly.
“Two, one for Count Renaud of Bolougne, praising his gathering of the Low Country Lords into the alliance and requesting the same number of troops; the other for Duke Hendrik of Brabant, asking for the same and proposing he support Flanders in Artois.”
Peter grunted, put the frothy flagon on the table by the letters then laced his breeches up.
“For our majesty’s favorite nephew, Kaiser Otto von Welf, congratulating him on the upcoming wedding to Princess Beatrix von Hohenstaufen and hoping the marriage brings and end to the Welf-Hohenstaufen War in Germania, also recommending a combined assault against our common enemy Philippe of France if peace is achieved with the Hohenstaufens.”
Something like a purr escaped Peter’s throat, “Not everyone gets to assassinate their rival and bed his virgin daughter.”
John assassinated his rival and stole a virgin bride, I’d say that’s close.
“Ah, the simple pleasures,” Robert fought a yawn and lost.
“Don’t mock me, quill. Nate, wake up, take this flagon of piss away,” Peter grumbled at the pile of limbs and snoring bodies on the floor. “Nate!”
Peter stood up and walked over, about to toe the nearest boy awake. He looked closer, pointed at the youth and snarled at Robert, “What is Owain ap Rhys doing here?”
Robert stifled yet another yawn, “Tis where he usually sleeps, I believe.”
Peter muttered something under his breath, grabbed the flagon and dumped it on the sleeping forms. Owain, Bill Marshall, and Nate Fitzroy all sputtered awake in confusion.
“Oh, fie!” Bill wrankled his nose and wiped his face. He was tall and long limbed, solid and muscular like his father, with a soft face and honey blonde hair like his mother.
Peter kicked Owain, who was soaked. “Welsh mongrel whoreson sheepshagging cocksucker! How dare you sneak in here! What are you, a spy? Are you under Llewellyn’s thumb?”
“What?” Owain pushed dripping hair out of his face. “What?”
Peter kicked him again, “Out! Out, before I have you hanged for treason!”
Peter threw the flagon through the open window. Owain stumbled out the room, muttering in Welsh, on the verge of tears.
“I should be asleep in my own bed, with my own woman, on my own estates!” Bill shouted. “Why am I the oldest squire in the kingdom?”
“Ask your father,” Peter sniped, “Oh you can’t, he’s exiled in Ireland!”
Bill pulled off his soiled tunic and stomped out the room.
Nate was staring oddly at the yellow stains on his shirt, then he looked up at the ceiling.
Peter batted him on the head lightly, “Be a good boy, wash your hair and face in fresh water, change into your cleanest shirt and tunic, then fetch me watered wine and something charred and bloody.”
As Nate rifled through his sack, Peter returned to the table and sat with a groan. Robert was bleary eyeing the wall tapestry depicting the Battle of Hastings, where Duke William the Bastard of Normandy started his conquest of the Anglo-Saxons.
“Well?” Peter scratched at his hair.
Robert handed over the lamb skin, “For Lord William Marshal, requesting he organize the Irish-Norman barons not taken with crushing the Shenanigans, and have them ready to depart from Dublin by the end of summer.”
“Next,” Peter croaked.
“For the earls and high barons of England, demanding liege service or a scutage payment for the campaign.”
“More,” Peter waved expectantly.
“For the sheriffs and Crown castellans, explaining their duties during the campaign.” Robert yawned and waved the final letter. “For the mayors of chartered towns; calling on carpenters, woodsmen, smiths, and volunteers to report to their sheriff.”
“I will take care of these,” Peter separated the continental letters. “Have the necessary copies of the rest before the end of the day. I want the Plantagenet seal on all before nightfall.”
Robert’s head drooped. “M’lord, I’ve been up all night. My mind is gruel.”
“Better gruel than drivel.” Peter looked about, “Where is that fool boy?”
“Between the three letters that’s over a hundred copies,” Robert explained.
Sleep . . . please . . . sleep.
Peter blinked unconcern. “You’re a Crown steward Robert, make do.”
. . .
Robert trudged up to his friends Harry, Ned, and Jeffrey eating breakfast in the refectory of St. Bart’s. He looked haggard in his muddy robe, clutching a scribe’s satchel, with bloodshot eyes, and an exhausted bearing. Even the royal seal looked dull. He stopped and leaned over the edge of the table, resting his weight on both hands.
“Robert, are you alright?” Harry asked.
“The Rock’s Churchsteward graces us with his presence,” Ned tore into a piece of hot buttered bread as he stared at the bronze seal.
“Story time!” Jeffrey lifted his spoon, “Where’ve you been this time, Robert, Jerusalem? Are the girls as hot as the weather?”
Robert took a chunk of bread from the plate on the table. He dipped it in Harry’s gruel and took a bite. After he’d slaked his thirst with a cup of water, he looked back at them staring at him intently.
“I need your help, all of you,” He said, looking over the half dozen clerics at the table. “I have some letters for copying.”
“We’re off to Westminster and the Tower before long, you know that,” Ned said.
“I’m more of a numbers man,” Jeffery wagged his finger.
Robert sighed and rubbed his hand across his brow.
“Tis very important these letters are sent off today,” Robert swayed.
“Tis very important I save my hand for the Justiciars Court,” Ned cracked his knuckles.
“I hate to say it, but he’s right, Robert,” Harry nodded at Ned.
The others at the table were already ignoring Robert.
They don’t understand.
“The Frenchy invasion is off!” Robert announced over their heads. He was looking in the distance, seeing what they could not, and the low rumble of conversation in the refectory died down. “King Philippe and Prince Llewellyn have forged an alliance against King John. The French are funding and supplying Welsh attacks into the March lands; tis why they are so unified and successful for once. Philippe and Llewellyn hope to force John into splitting his forces by attacking simultaneously. The French are raiding Poitou, but Philippe’s plans are delayed by the large numbers of French knights crusading in Occitaine and Iberia. King John is going to invade Wales instead of France, my brothers. He’s not going to leave until every last Welshman is dead or subdued, ever castle taken or destroyed, every village occupied or burned.”
Robert paused so his mind could catch up with his tongue, but he had the entire hall’s attention. “John intends this war to be like William the Bastard’s. He’s going to build English castles and bring English settlers, and we’re not going to leave. John wants the Welsh to be nothing more than a memory, like the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms of old, and this war starts in a month.”
He looked down at his friends staring at him in shock. The hall erupted in uproarious commotion. Robert felt powerful again, like he had before Caliph al Nasir and at Binham Priory. He felt the secret about his neck, a lead weight dragging him down into the abyss. He questioned whether his dream was worth the price, deciding it was too late to wake up now.
Robert reached into his satchel, pulling the purse out that Peter gave him before they left the Tower. He threw the purse on the table, and the jangle of coins caught everyone’s attention. In a tired, but clear voice Robert declared, “A half pence for every copy written before the wagons leave”
“I’ll help. I don’t care about the silver.”
Robert looked over at a youth with dark hair, ice eyes, and ghost pale skin.
“You look familiar.”
“I’m Brother Samwell, Master Robert, twas I the abbot sent for you.”
“You’re a novice,” Robert pointed out.
“Not anymore,” Samwell stuck out his chin proudly. “I took your place in the Justiciar’s Court.”
Robert grinned and clapped him on the shoulder, “Then by all means.”
Robert looked back to his friends. “Well brothers, what say you?”
. . .
“Do you see who I don’t, Robert?” Peter asked as the royal host approached St. Albans Abbey.
The entire column stretched nearly a league through the outskirts, suburbs, and streets of St. Albans town. All the inhabitants turned out, many in their finest clothing. Still there were no great cheers for King John the Excommunicated.
A vanguard of standard bearers was already assembled before the steps of the cathedral. Among them were Prince Alexander of Scotland’s red rampant lion on a field of gold, Longsword’s six rampant lions upon a blue field, Renaud of Boulougne’s triple red suns on gold, Arundel of Sussex’ golden rampant lion on crimson, Fat Ferrers of Derby’s golden bells on crimson and bordered in silver with black horseshoes, Fitzpeter’s crimson and gold quadrants, Fitzwalter’s bar between chevrons, Lanvalay’s green and white horizontal stripes, and Montfichet’s triple gold chevrons on crimson. There was London’s red cross on a white field with a red dagger in the upper left corner, as well as the Crownshire banners of Cornwall, Dorset, and Summerset.
Robert scanned the crowd gathered on the cathedral steps.
“Non,” Robert admitted.
Just ahead of them, Longsword leaned over and spoke to his brother the king, who immediately scanned the crowd before the cathedral.
“Longsword noticed,” Peter commented, “And so now the king has as well.”
Robert stretched in the saddle and gazed again. Many nobles, ladies, and heirs were waiting by the doors of St. Albans, dressed in beautifully colorful silks and velvets. Robert had seen most of them at Court at one time or another. “I see Geoff Mandeville, the Clares of Hertford, the Veres of Oxford, the Bigods of Norfolk, Earl Warenne of Surrey, Earl Sayer of Winchester and his sons, Sheriff Huntingfield, Sheriff Segrave, but I don’t see. . .” Robert looked for someone missing, “Abbot Jean de Cell.”
Peter grinned. “St. Albans has no one to greet his majesty.”
Earls and barons filled the Guest House and Old Hall of the abbey. Their knights and lesser barons filled the town’s inns, taverns, and those townfolk brave enough to open their homes. Battalions of sergeants made camp in the surrounding fields. Fights broke out over crawlspaces, attics, and shepherd sheds. The siege train parked in the field in front of the cathedral, proving a source of intense curiosity to the local children. Robert considered himself lucky to share the chaplain’s room in the King’s House with his friends from St. Barts.
“What’s in the chest, Robert? You’ve never shown us,” Ned asked as he jammed his sack into a corner of the room.
Robert had purchased a lock for his chest, relishing the thrill of possessing his very own key.
“Aye, there’s something heavy in there. I’ve heard it thunk,” Harry added.
“Tis the True Cross, I tell you,” Jeffrey jested.
“You’ll see,” Robert stalled, “Later, the chancellor has a task for me.”
“Doesn’t he always?” Ned rolled his eyes.
“Jealous much?” Jeffrey jibed.
“Fie you!” Ned snarked.
“I’m off,” Robert left them.
Robert was halted in the solar room by Thoryn Beefeater, Master Sergeant of the Crownguards. John had retired to his drawing room with his usual cabal and was not to be disturbed. Robert convinced the usher to allow a page bringing in wine to deliver a message to the chancellor. Peter stepped out a few minutes later and gave Robert brief, clear, and direct orders as usual.
Robert smiled.
. . .
Robert entered the abbot’s office without being announced. Jean de Cell was going over some documents with his prior and chamberlain.
“Good afternoon, brothers,” Robert greeted them in Latin.
“What do you think you are doing?” Prior Gill de Trumpington demanded.
Robert grinned and rested his hands on his hips. He stared straight at Jean and said, “The king will see you now.”
“His majesty is an excommunicant,” Jean scoffed. “I am forbidden from meeting with him.”
Robert nodded while the trumverate glared at him. “We thought you might say that, so you have two options: I escort you to King John or crownguards can.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” The prior stood from his chair. “This is a House of God!”
“Gill, calm down,” Jean urged his companion back into his seat. He turned a weary, contemptible gaze on Robert, “I see you did not heed my advice. Have you gone deaf to God standing so close to King John?”
Robert’s smile smirked into a frown, “Sergeant Falmouth!”
. . .
“This is an outrage, tis totally unnecessary!” Jean fumed in the drawing room.
Robert squeezed next to Peter against a wall. King John was sitting with his back to the light pouring through the multi colored Venetian glass window. To his left was Queen Isabelle, their boys Hal and Rickon huddled on either side of her shoulders. To his right was young and flame haired Prince Alexander, with his blonde and stawberry haired older sisters standing either side of him. Behind them were lanky Longsword and sword sharp Warenne of Surrey, the king’s paternal cousin. Lord Forester Neville and Count Renaud of Bolougne took up the window seat.
The heat was palpable.
“Are you not an Englishman?” King John asked simply.
“I am a man of God,” Abbot Jean declared proudly, standing stiff and haughty.
“I do not question your faith, man. By God’s teeth, I question your blood. Are you an Englishman or not?” John demanded irately.
Jean’s aged shoulders slouched. “I’m an Englishman.”
“Then you are my subject!” King John shouted, “Innocent’s Interdict be damned, I expect to be greeted by my subjects!” He let his words sink to silence. Then, as he shifted his gouty right ankle with a hiss, he switched tempers, “As you are aware, we have planned a feast for the lords of the realm so prepare the cathedral in fine order.”
“The cathedral?” Jean gasped.
“Indeed,” King John agreed, “And we have not forgotten the gift pledge owed us for securing peace at Binham Priory.”
“There was no justice done,” Jean shot an angry glance at Robert.
King John chuckled and took a sip of St. Albans fine mead. “Silly abbot, you cannot seek justice from an excommunicated king, twould be anathema to Innocent’s Interdict. So let’s stop playing games, shall we? You sought peace, which was delivered. If you have further issue with Baron Fitzwalter, I suggest you take it with him directly. He is here somewhere, or there is always Innocent. In the meantime, we require the gift of one hundred pounds for services rendered.”
“Twas fifty pounds,” Jean boldly corrected.
“Twas,” King John grinned and saluted the abbot with his goblet of mead. “Now I’m certain setting up the cathedral for a state dinner will take some doing, so you’d best get busy. Master Robert will escort you to your office and collect the overdue fee.”
Master Robert, how sweet it sounds coming from the king’s lips.
The Plantagenet lion felt warm against Robert’s chest, the secret letter seemed to write its promise on his soul.
King John waved at the door with his fingers, “Tis all, you’re dismissed.”
. . .
Sir Laurence of St. Albans personally escorted Robert back to the King’s House with the chests of twenty four hundred silver pence. Serving brothers handed them over to Sergeant Falmouth and his men, then Laurence lightly gripped Robert’s elbow.
“I need a word with you,” Laurence explained.
“If you give me but a moment I can have the abbot’s receipt.”
Laurence squeezed Robert’s elbow tighter, urging him away from the crownguards. “Indeed. However, it seems the last time you stayed in the King’s House a woman was discovered in your bed.”
“I can explain that,” Robert started.
“See here, scribbler,” Laurence menaced, tightening his grip on Robert’s elbow and jerking hard, “Delilah works for silver. I charge you for a poke at her cunny. You don’t charge her for rent of the room.”
“But . . .” Robert was flummoxed. “But she . . .”
“I don’t give a damn what she said, scribbler. Who cares what a Scots whore says? If I find you charging rent again, I’ll cut your tongue out and wipe my arse with it,” Laurence warned him with a sharp poke from his dagger, hidden between the folds of his clothing.
Robert jolted at the point of pain in his belly.
Laurence smiled politely and spoke loudly, “I’ll be expecting that receipt then, good day to you Master Robert.”
. . .
Robert entered the King’s House looking over his shoulder. He turned towards the chaplain’s room and bumped into a soft curvaceous figure. He let go of the waist he’d instinctively grabbed to steady them, stepped back and bowed with embarrassment.
“My apologies, m’lady,” Robert bowed.
“Tis alright, Master Robert, you should watch where you’re going though, not where you’ve come from,” The voice was dreadfully familiar.
Robert gazed up slowly. Maud had forgone the habit of a Bride of Christ and was wearing a red velvet gown with golden silk trim and a lion’s paw pattern. Her long, straight black hair hung loose and luscious in a bold declaration of her virginity. Rosy cheeks and golden earings complimented the dress, but not nearly as much as the ruby necklace nestled cozily upon her bosom. Robert’s eyes lingered on the necklace, a gold chain with a familiar almond-shaped ruby gripped in an eagle’s talon. Maud thought otherwise.
“Why Robert, you’re a man of God, tis unseemly to look at me so,” Maud smiled.
One of young ladies beside her giggled and blushed, while the other fretted and frowned.
Robert lifted his eyes to Maud’s stormcloud orbs, thinking himself a fool for not recognizing the hair and eyes of King John. “I might point out that is not the habit of Fontevrault, Sister Maud.”
“I’m reconsidering my vows,” Maud snapped back, “Forgive my rudeness, Master Robert. May I introduce Princesses Margaret and Bella of Scotland?”
Robert bowed again before the royal hostages, “Ladies.”
They were roughly the same age as Maud. King John took the princesses three years earlier, on Robert’s first journey with the Crown Court. Their father, King William Dunkeld laid claim to Northumbria, but before his army corssed the border of the River Tweed John was there with Count Ranulf, Longsword, and Fawkes by his side. He took five Scottish castles, raping and reaving the borderlands barren. Dunkeld was so shocked he collapsed, and when he awoke the left side of his body refused all commands. Humbled, humiliated, and on the verge of losing his hard won kingdom, Dunkeld had his boy Prince Alexander pay homage to John as overlord of Scotland. John then took Margaret and Bella hostage as surety of Dunkeld’s Peace.
Maud, Margaret, and Bella made a striking trinity with their black, blonde, and red hair.
“Forgive me for asking, but I couldn’t help noticing that necklace. Tis quite fetching,” Robert complimented Maud.
She smiled gloriously, twisting the ruby between her fingers. “Do you like it? Twas a present from Papa,” She said and plucked at her dress. “This was the queen’s favorite, but she hasn’t been able to wear it since bearing children. She gave me a whole wardrobe of clothes. They’ve been so kind and generous, don’t you think?”
“You are his daughter,” Princess Margaret agreed with a sly, sad smirk.
. . .
The cathedral was lit by what seemed a thousand candles, torches, and tapers. Shadows leapt about the walls, ceiling, and columns in amorphous forms. Several trestle tables were placed on a raised dais for the king and his privy guests. From the edge of the dais, two long perpendicular rows of tables extended down the nave for the lords and ladies of the realm. The inner space was occupied by entertainers, serving brothers, and pages providing for every desire.
Abbot Jean de Cell was conspicuously absent, so Peter de Roches sat in his bishop’s attire to the right of King John; the customary place for the host. Queen Isabelle was on John’s left, and Maud sat beside her. She was given the honor of initiating the dinner by pouring her father’s first goblet of mead. Her cheeks flushed in the knowledge of so many judgemental eyes and whisperings. The ruby twinkled and pulsed in the candlelight.
Robert was at the table with Ricardus Marsh, Ralfus de Neville, Ned, Harry, Jeffrey, and Fawke’s cleric Passelewe. As jugglers, mimes, and a jester performed, the feast was brought out and laid before them. The cathedral quickly echoed with gossip, boisterous laughter, shouts for more food and drink, barking dogs, and the jester’s incredibly loud farts.
Each guest was provided a stale, hollowed-out loaf of bread for a trencher. The first course consisted of sliced wedges of pears and apples, pitted cherries, grapes, and plums, as well as several different cheeses. Flagons of mead, ale, and wine flowed freely. The meats were brought out one at a time: steaks of beef, shanks of lamb, chops of ham, breasts of duck, whole chickens, bowls of stewed lamprey eels, and juicy loins of venison.
Many of the lords were required to provide for the feast. John was quick to compliment Arundel for the cherries, Renaud for the ale, his brother Longsword for the steaks, and so on. By the time the roast deer was brought out everyone was well into their cups. The conversation was growing ribald and more than a few playful jibes were bantering between rival nobles.
“Baron Fitzwalter, this wine is quite striking.” King John announced in his best official voice. “I must buy a cask or two off you, dare I ask the name?”
“Tis Lusignan’s Sin, your majesty,” Fitzwalter replied curtly and swigged another long haul.
“From one treacherous liegeman to another,” Earl Warenne of Surrey poured his goblet on the floor. He was hawk thin, with cavernous eyes, sharp angles, and a goatee grown for sneers. “Now I know what treason tastes like.”
The hall burst into cliques of laughter and condemnation.
“Now, now, Warenne,” King John fretted with a mocking grin. “We’ve long since forgiven Fitzwalter for the surrender of Vaudreuil Castle.”
“As I recall Warenne, when King Philippe invaded Normandy you fled back home to England as quick as a hunted hare,” Earl Sayer of Winchester came to Baron Fitzwalter’s defense. He was with his cousin Fitzwalter at Vaudreuil a decade ago. His Anglo-Norman was accented with a Scots brogue. “Did you grow bored buggering all your Norman wards, squires, and sergeants?”
Another round of laughter and cursing erupted.
“I did not sell out our king to the frogs!” Warenne shot back angrily. “What did Philippe promise the pair of you, eh? I hope twas worth it!”
“Well twasn’t little boys or perhaps you’d have stuck around!” Sayer shrugged.
Warenne looked murderous as even his friends laughed.
Fitzwalter slammed his goblet down on the table, splashing Lusignan’s Sin everywhere. “Do you wish to know the truth of it Warenne? All of you?” He shouted, and the cacophony of conversations died down.
Lady Gannora gripped her husband’s arm and whispered to him, but he was beyond reasoning, and jerked his arm free.
“I can hold my tongue no longer, woman!” Fitzwalter refused Gannora’s plea.
He pushed himself up, addressing the entire cathedral, “I’ve endured jests, jibes, and japes, minstrel’s songs and bard’s tales. If none of you cowards who swam back across the Channel believe Vaudreuil was under-provisioned, under-manned, and rife with disease, then fie upon you all!”
King John and his guests on the dais remained tensely quiet.
“Baron Fitzwalter, now is not the time to forget King John’s generosity,” Peter fingered the chancellor’s seal atop his purple robes. “He paid you back your ransom, and since then has forgiven your debts with the London Jews, expanded your Merchant’s Charter to Bordeaux and Paris, granted you foresting rights in the Great Essex Forest, and overlooked your little war against St. Albans. Some might go so far as to say you owe his majesty a great deal of gratitude.”
“Here! Here!” Earl Arundel backed Peter.
“Most generous indeed!” Fat Ferrers seconded Arundel and bit into a juicy lamprey.
“Peter, you know better than any other why the king’s been so generous. Truth be told, the king did not pardon me out of love or understanding.” Fitzwalter threw a drunken malevolent stare at John, who stared back with broiling intensity. “Non, he was purchasing my silence, as he has continued these long years, but I will remain silent no longer!”
“Baron Fitzwalter,” King John seethed.
“Non!” Fitzwalter shouted. “Tis not enough that you bade Sayer and I offer Vaudreil and the entire Vexin March of Normandy to King Philippe in return for peace. Non! Tis not enough that we took the blame for surrendering the castle, while being thrown in our own dungeon. Non! Tis not enough we’ve endured every barb, jest, and jape in every tavern from Rouen to Edinburgh. Non! I have sat here all evening and endured what is most assuredly living proof of your vilest insult and I shall sit for it no longer!”
“That is pure slander!” Peter shouted to be heard over the waves of shock, indignation, and refutation.
“Fitzwalter,” King John admonished, “Think of all we have forgiven, all we have provided, and all we may yet do.”
Fawkes the Brute slowly stalked the shadows towards the baron, munching on a dagger skewered apple, other hand resting on the grip of Talon, the war sickle about his neck.
“Is Maud Fitzroy not the result of you raping my Matilda?” Fitzwalter accused, oblivious with rage, pointing at the young woman with the ruby necklace.
“Baron Fitzwalter!” King John and Lord Peter raised their voices in unison to no avail.
The cathedral erupted in shocked banter.
“That is quite enough!” Peter shouted and stood angrily.
“Traitors never change!” Arundel shouted and threw his goblet over his shoulder.
Ferrers drained his cup, sloshing half over his tunic, “Here! Here!” He threw the goblet into the center space, then grabbed for another lamprey.
King John shook with white fury. Queen Isabelle flushed while biting her lip red. Maud looked horrifically embarrassed. Longsword seemed to have a headache. Fitzpeter covered his mouth with a palsied hand. Prince Alexander of Scotland was delightfully entertained, while John’s sons were utterly confused. Peter appeared eager to launch himself across the table.
Fawkes the Brute chuckled and flicked the apple to the stone floor, stepping ever closer.
“Is what he says true, Papa?” Maud asked.
“Nonsense, child. He is a drunken buffoon, nothing more.” King John spat as he white knuckled the arm rests of his chair, shooting arrows at Fitzwalter with his eyes.
“What other proof do I need?” Fitzwalter refuted. “Maud may have the king’s hair and eyes, but she has my daughter’s face and smile!”
Fitzwalter waved down at Gannora, utterly aghast at the attention, “And Matilda was ever her mother’s daughter! While our majesty certainly plots Maud’s marriage prospects, my Matilda has been left barren by his cursed seed!”
“How now!” Geoff Mandeville roared and stood several seats down from Fitzwalter.
The epiphany of his childless marriage dawned terrible. His father, Lord Justiciar Geoffrey Fitzpeter, leaned into the table to peer past Longsword at Maud. The look on his face said it all. Robert squinted a closer look at Maud and thought of Matilda Fitzwalter, a woman he’d seen often in the White Tower.
The day I lost Maud and Savaric! She was so upset, leaving Geoff with her family! No wonder!
Gannora stood hurriedly, sobbing and covering her face with her hands. She rushed away, followed closely by her daughter Christiana, ring daughters Anne de Braose and Ida de Vere, Fitzwalter’s brother’s wife Sarah de Neville, Earl Clare’s wife Lady Amice, and her cousin Liam Valognes’ wife, Lora de Quincy. Lady Aveline de Clare sat on the royal dais with her husband Fitzpeter’s hand on her arm.
While several barons taunted Fitzwalter as a liar, Warenne remained silent. He was John’s cousin, son of another of King Henry’s bastards, and his sister was forced into bed with John when he was Prince of Ireland. Dickon de Warrene was sitting further down the table, but Warenne’s sister took the veil out of shame. If John was capable of incestual rape, he was surely capable of conquering Matilda Fitzwalter.
“We have heard enough!” King John screamed shrilly and stood beside his chancellor. “We are amazed at the depths of cruelty you will sink . . .”
“She was a child, my king, twelve and as innocent as an angel! Her moonflux had just arrived!” Fitzwalter continued with righteous bravery, hot tears of long suppressed anguish and rage finally flowing free. “I welcomed you to Hertford, as a loyal Crown Constable should, and how did you repay me? You defiled my little girl on my very own bed!”
The cathedral erupted in uproar.
“How dare you!” King John shouted and smashed his fist into the table.
“Was it any different with Queen Isabelle?” Fitzwalter laughed bitterly.
She, too, was twelve when John stole her from Count Hugh Lusignan of La Marche. While the songs of Fitzwalter’s surrender at Vaudreuil were derisive, they did not compare to the songs concerning John’s lust filled nights with his child-wife as Philippe conquered Normandy all around them.
“I shant endure this any longer!” Queen Isabelle screamed, hauling her boys Hal and Rickon off as she vaulted from the dais.
“Mum, what’s he talking about?” Prince Hal asked innocently as Isabelle jerked his arm.
“I should have you killed on the spot!” King John shouted.
The Brute laughed and twirled Talon free as crownguards ushered in behind him. Oliver Fitzroy appeared sword in hand with more crownguards on the far side of the baron. Bauduin Plowsword and Thoryn Beefeater were making their way steadily down the far side of the tables. Bauduin’s oversized claymore sparked and scraped against the stone floor.
Fitzwalter’s brother Simon, sons Walter and Robin, ring brother Gibb Peche and ring nephew Sweet Willum Lanvalay, ring cousin Liam Valognes, cousins Richard and Gilbert Clare, ring sons Geoff and Will Mandeville, ring brother Bertran de Vere, second cousins Rikard Montfichet and Sayer Quincy, and Quincy’s boys Rob and Roger, all rose to defend him with nothing but daggers and dinner knives. Gerry de Vere, the Bastard of Oxford, jumped on the table for a good view. Earl Roger Bigod of Norfolk and his son Hugh stood as well, only to get out of the way.
Jester the Fool tried to distract them with his loudest fart ever and shite his pants.
“Stop!” Someone shouted from the darkness. “Majesty, I will not allow you to turn Baron Fitzwalter into another Beckett,” Abbot Jean emerged from the shadows of a pillar.
John’s father, King Henry said similar things about Archbishop Thomas Beckett of Canterbury in his day. Beckett was killed by two kingsmen in his very own cathedral, and was now revered as a saint.
“Have you all gone mad?” Abbot Jean berated them all, “This is a House of God! If you must attack one another, do it somewhere else. Otherwise I will personally see to it Pope Innocent excommunicates you all!”
Everyone stood still. A commanding silence descended over the cathedral. King John looked possessed. Jester couldn’t hold it in any longer and farted.
King John smacked the goblet before him, filling the cathedral with a splash and clank.
“I’ve lost my appetite,” Fitzwalter muttered and stomped away, shouldering by the Brute fearlessly. He was followed by his defenders, the lords of all East Anglia.
“The fool,” Ricardus Marsh shook his head.
“Apparently he didn’t learn from the Great Braose Hunt,” Ralfus quipped.
Robert’s friend Jeffrey raised his head, red eyed and drooling.
“Whas happen?” He slurred as the exodus left the cathedral.
“Apparently the king raped Baron Fitzwalter’s daughter,” Robert explained.
Jeffrey hiccuped, “In fron of ever body?”