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“TO THE KING!” John said, holding his cup aloft and toasting his elder brother.
“Long live the king!” the assemblage responded. And with that, the celebration began in earnest.
The king’s cortège had wound its way back to the banqueting hall at the Royal Palace, where long tables set with goblets and bottomless pitchers formed an open square with Richard sitting centermost at the raised dais.
Earls, barons, and bishops followed John’s lead, each taking a turn in saluting the king and pledging undying loyalty.
The newly named bishop of Ely and chancellor of England, Guillaume de Longchamp, raised his cup in salute. “What, Richard? No bats in the belfry, no shades taking wing around your throne? Where are the ill omens, eh? The soothsayers lie, I say. There are no auguries of evil, no taints to your reign. You, Richard Plantagenêt, shall live forever!”
Waves of cheers splashed across the tables.
William Marshal stood. “Not long ago ...,” he began, and waited for his audience to hush. “Not long ago, when Henry fled north from Le Mans, the town of his birth, and Richard chased him in heady pursuit, most keen and most ready to slice off the head of his father the king, I had the occasion of routing our new king.”
Laughter rumbled like an approaching storm, some of it in jest and some laced with malice.
“Henry’s rearguard was under command, in my most humble opinion, of a supreme leader. Myself!” He waited for the laughter to subside. “It was my privilege, indeed my duty, to ride straight for the arrogant duke of Aquitaine and level lance at his breast. Not wearing hauberk or carrying a lance of his own, Richard cried out, ‘By God’s legs, do not kill me, Marshal. I am unarmed!’ To which I replied, ‘Let the Devil kill you, for I won’t!’ Then, adjusting my aim, I ran my lance through his horse.”
Every man bent over with fits of mirth.
“Now you see my reward for killing his horse.” He bowed to the king. “Named lord of Striguil and given a comely young bride to soften the edges of my pride, so says my new king. Let that be a lesson to you all. To kill the horse and not the king!”
Richard chortled heartily and brought a goblet to his sputtering lips.
Laughing into his cups, Marshal retook his seat beside Drake and slapped him on the back, urging him to join in the merriment. For a story was a story, but when told by William Marshal was an even greater story than other men told, especially since he had been grandmaster to the fitzAlan brothers when they were beardless youths and yet remained their mentor and captain. Flush with drink, Drake did as he was bid and snorted into his goblet as if he were high in spirits even while his eyes soberly focused on one man.
John was sitting austerely beside his brother the king. The earl of Gloucester was not in a celebratory frame of mind even though he drank cup for cup with every toast. Short where his brother the king was stately, dark where his brother the king was golden, rude where his brother the king was charming, and crude where his brother the king was refined, John was a man who might be king someday, but only if his brother died before issuing an heir. From the look of his haughty face and knowing the depth of his pride, Drake feared he would rule England on day, though it wouldn’t be this day.
Marshal slung a heavy arm around Drake’s shoulders. “He’s a spoilt child, that one. He has much to learn. And so do you, my fine fellow.” Drake broke the one-sided stare Marshal had noticed and let his eyes drift elsewhere.
Platter after food-laden platter was brought out in timed splendor. The citizens of London proudly served as cellarers while the townsfolk of Winchester looked after the kitchen.
First on the menu was cherry potage in wine with butter and sugar. Next came blanche porre cooked with leeks and onions in a chicken stock spiced with saffron, sugar, and pepper. The rest followed systematically, allowing time for digestion, belches, more toasts, the trading of tales, and the singing of songs. More dishes arrived. Lombard chicken pasties stuffed with bacon. Roasted peacocks, their brilliant blue-and-green plumage in full array. Blawmanger capon with almonds and rice. Roasted quail seasoned with mustard and nutmeg. Braised pheasant blended with cinnamon and summer savory. Wild salmon cooked with honey, pepper, and parsley. And cruste rolles cut into rounds and fried to mouth-watering crispness.
As abundant and varied were the dishes, these were but the appetizers. The nonstop feasting was to go on for three days. More than five-thousand dishes, nine-hundred pitchers, and two-thousand goblets would be piled high or filled to the rim, and forthwith emptied and refilled again.
Queen Eleanor had outdone herself. But in the tradition of a king’s coronation, this was an affair reserved only for men. Neither the queen nor any other noblewoman was allowed to attend. Additionally, members of the Jewish community were expressly forbidden, which proved to be the coronation’s undoing.
Because outside the Royal Palace, a clamor arose, quietly at first but eventually escalating until the heated commotion penetrated the banquet hall with hushed tones and frantic whispers. In leisurely fashion, gossip spread from knight to baron and from earl to bishop, and soon burst into flames too hot to squelch.
Bringing with them only the best of intentions, a delegation of London Jews had arrived, bearing gifts to offer the new king. Stopped from entering by Richard’s bailiffs, the Jewish leaders were forcibly ejected and their offerings confiscated. Crowds milling outside the palace set upon the unfortunate men once more, beating them in the heat of emotion, some to the point of death.
His finery ruffled and soiled, a courtier rushed into the hall and whispered into the king’s ear. Temper flared across Richard’s face. The Jews were under his sworn protection. Hell would be paid before sunset.
In the tumult, John—accompanied by his retinue—slipped out of the hall.
