A King's Ransom (73 page)

A
FTER CAPTURING
É
VREUX,
the French king turned it over to his ally, and John was lodged at the castle on this rainy afternoon in early May. As Durand hastened down a narrow street already deep in mud, the knight cursed as the wind blew his hood back and then swore again at an aggressive beggar who blocked his way. It took him a while to find the small, shabby tavern, hidden away in an alley close by the river. It was poorly lit by smoking wall rushlights; he paused in the doorway until his eyes adjusted to the dimness and he saw the man awaiting him at a shadowed corner table.

Sliding onto the bench beside Justin de Quincy, Durand signaled to the servingmaid for wine. “A charming hovel you picked for this tryst. What . . . you could not find a pigsty?”

“I did look for one,” Justin said, “for I wanted you to feel at home.”

They traded smiles that were colder than the rain drenching Évreux. They were very unlike; Justin was much younger, dark, intense, and guarded, while Durand was in his thirties, with the swagger and high coloring of a Viking. They’d loathed each other from their first meeting, but they’d often had to work together, for they were both the queen’s men and the one attribute they shared was loyalty, absolute and unquestioned, to Eleanor.

Justin’s message was a coded verbal one, for it was too dangerous to commit anything to writing. “What are your chances of bringing the lost sheep back into the fold?” he said, pitching his voice even lower than usual.

“This particular sheep is one for wandering off on his own. I’ll do my best to track him down, though. Once I find him, where should I bring him?”

“To the market in Lisieux.”

Durand nodded, then pushed the bench back, having heard all he needed to know. He did not bother to bid Justin farewell, nor did he bother to pay for his wine. Justin dropped a few coins on the warped wood table, watching the other man saunter out the door, shoving aside two customers just entering. They started to object, but after a closer look at Durand, they decided to let it go. Justin was not surprised by their wariness; he’d once heard Durand described as “a man born to drink with the Devil.” Eleanor’s tame wolf thrived on danger and courted confrontation, but Justin could deny neither his courage nor his quick wit. He needed both to have survived so long in his dual role, for if John ever discovered he’d been played for such a fool, Justin thought even Durand would be deserving of pity.

D
URAND MADE A PURCHASE
in the market before returning to the castle. As he entered the great hall, the knights he encountered acknowledged him coolly, for he had no friends among them, nor did he want any. He did not even get a grudging nod from Ursula. She was playing a game of draughts with her maid, and he might have been invisible for all the notice she took of him. Men who showed Durand disrespect did so at their peril. Rudeness from John’s sultry paramour merely amused him, and he deliberately annoyed her by stopping to flirt with her flustered maid.

As he expected, he found John alone in his bedchamber, for the queen’s son, usually a man who craved company, had been solitary and brooding in the past fortnight, ever since hearing that his castle at Nottingham had surrendered to Richard.

John was lounging on the bed, an open book upon his lap. He’d been given the same excellent education as his brothers and seemed to find a genuine pleasure in reading. He got to his feet, saying sarcastically, “I must be going deaf, for I did not hear you knock, Durand.”

“Fortunately, you do not value me for my manners, my lord.” Durand moved to the table, picked up the flagon that John’s squire kept filled, and poured two cups, then waited for John to join him.

John bridled a bit, but boredom finally drove him to the table, for whatever Durand’s other failings, he was usually entertaining. “I assume you have a reason for this intrusion, Durand.”

“I brought you this, my lord.” Durand put a sack on the table and pulled out a small hourglass.

“Is this a jest?” John said coldly. “If so, I do not find it amusing.”

“That is understandable, my lord, for there is nothing remotely amusing about your predicament. But I thought you needed reminding that the time to make a choice is running out.”

John scowled. The knight’s boldness was one of the reasons he enjoyed the other man’s company; few men had the ballocks to be as forthright as Durand, but it could be vexing, too. “Choice?” he echoed. “Your jokes are falling far shy of the mark today.”

“You do have a choice, my lord. You can cling to your alliance with the French king or you can seek to make peace with your brother.”

“Is that your idea of a choice?” John jeered. “That is like asking me where I’d prefer to live, Sodom or Gomorrah.”

“Passing strange,” Durand drawled, “for I’d find it very easy to make that choice. In Sodom, you’d be Philippe’s puppet, mayhap even his lackey. In Gomorrah, you’d be the heir to the English throne.”

John slammed his wine cup down on the table. “I am no man’s lackey!”

“But that is what they’ll be calling you at the French court, even if it is done behind your back. Your value to Philippe plummeted as soon as Richard set foot again on English soil. He will still call you his ally, throw you the occasional crumbs from his table, like Évreux. But you’ll have no leverage with him, and you’d best think what that will mean. You are not a man who finds it easy to curry favor or to curb your tongue. And Philippe will demand that you do both.”

Durand had taken a risk in speaking so bluntly. But he was sure that he was not telling John anything he did not already know. John might be many things; a fool was not amongst them. He just needed to be nudged in the right direction and to be assured that it was the only road to take.

John confirmed this now by saying bitterly, “You think Richard would not make me grovel and fawn over him, too?”

If you’re lucky, he would,
Durand thought. Aloud, he said, “I daresay you’re right. But a bit of groveling is a cheap price to pay for a crown, my lord.” He leaned across the table, locking eyes with John. “If ever there was a man who’ll not make old bones, it is your brother. I consider it a minor miracle that he has managed to dodge Death as long as he has. Sooner or later, his luck will run out, and when it does, you need to be there to take advantage of it.”

John’s eyes were an uncommon shade of hazel, but they looked golden now, catching the light from the candle at his elbow. “I think you’re forgetting Richard’s little Spanish bride. Suppose she gives him a son?”

Durand shrugged. “That is the chance you take, my lord. But even if she does so, how likely is it that Richard will live long enough for his son to reach manhood? And no one wants a child king, not when they could have a man grown.”

“You’re asking me to gamble all upon what may or may not happen, Durand.”

“Since when are you averse to gambling, my lord? You wagered that Richard would not come back and lost. This is a gamble with better odds.”

John stared down into his wine cup, as if seeking answers. “What if Richard refuses to forgive me? I was declared an outlaw and traitor by his Nottingham council.”

Durand hid a smile, sure now that he’d penned his sheep. He allowed himself a moment or two of triumph, and then leaned in again, doing all he could to banish John’s misgivings, doing what his queen wanted of him.

E
LEANOR STOOD ON THE BATTLEMENTS
of Portchester Castle’s high stone keep, heedless of the stinging rain and gusting wind. Portsmouth’s harbor was slate grey, churned with whitecaps, spume being flung high into the air by the waves pounding the shore. She could no longer find the sail of her son’s galley. Her eyes searched the horizon intently, but she saw only storm clouds and the angry sea.

“Madame!” She turned to see the Countess of Aumale hurrying along the rampart walkway, her mantle billowing out behind her as she struggled against the wind. Hawisa had joined them at Portsmouth soon after their arrival on April 24, eager to accompany them to Normandy. Eleanor had welcomed her company, and she was touched that Hawisa would have ventured out onto the battlements, for the other woman had once confessed to an unease of heights. Clearly, Hawisa had heard that Richard’s galley had put out to sea in the teeth of the gale.

“Is it true?” Hawisa sounded breathless, and avoided glancing down into the bailey below. “Has the king really sailed on his own?”

Eleanor nodded. “He grew more and more restless as each day passed, and today he lost all patience. This morning he gave the town of Portsmouth its first royal charter, and this afternoon he declared that he would wait no longer. As you can see,” she said, gesturing toward the hundred ships riding at anchor in the harbor, “the masters of his fleet balked at sailing in such a storm. But Richard paid them no heed and the
Sea-Cleaver
headed out to sea soon after None rang.”

Hawisa shivered, clutching her mantle as tightly as she could. She could not imagine any rational person choosing to sail in such fearful weather and she was deeply grateful that she was not out on that dark, surging sea with Richard.

Richard’s insanity was all too familiar to Eleanor, for it was a madness he’d shared with his father. Henry had often pitted his will against nature’s fury, sailing in weather even worse than this May squall. When they’d journeyed to England for their coronation, he’d insisted upon braving a wild November gale, and for years afterward, the mere memory of that harrowing Channel crossing could make Eleanor feel queasy. She still remembered her frustration and her fury when he’d taken her back to England as his prisoner, unable to protest when he refused to wait till a savage storm abated, unable to stop him from taking nine-year-old Joanna and eight-year-old John with them. At least Richard had put out to sea alone; Henry always insisted that his fleet sail with him, even when his sailors were pleading that he stay in port. Eleanor had not understood it then, nor did she now. And as she gazed across Portsmouth’s storm-whipped harbor, she was torn between anger at her son’s reckless lunacy and fear for his safety. Surely he could not have survived so much only to drown because of his own stubbornness? But all she could do was to pray to the Almighty to save him from his own folly.

R
ICHARD’S GALLEY WAS
so battered by the storm that it was blown backward by the wind and they had to take shelter in a cove on the Isle of Wight. Much to his frustration and somewhat to his embarrassment, the winds continued to be so contrary the next day that he had no choice but to return to Portsmouth. There he ran into a force no less powerful than the weather—his furious mother. Eleanor told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to sail again until the winds were favorable, and he reluctantly agreed to wait. So it was not until May 12 that his fleet left Portsmouth behind in the distance, landing that same day at Barfleur. Neither Richard nor Eleanor would ever see England again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE