A King's Ransom (85 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

JANUARY 1195

Chinon Castle, Touraine

H
ugh d’Avalon, the Bishop of Lincoln, arrived at Chinon Castle on the last Wednesday in January. As soon as he was ushered into the great hall, he knew that something had happened, something good. Wherever he looked, he saw smiles, and the only sound he heard was laughter. Instead of waiting for him to approach the dais, Richard rose and strode forward, offering a warm welcome that he did not extend to all prelates. Once greetings had been exchanged, Hugh’s curiosity prodded him to ask what they were celebrating.

“A death,” Richard said, giving the older man a challenging look. “I suppose you will say that is un-Christian, my lord bishop.”

“Well, that would depend upon the identity of the deceased.”

That earned him a startled smile from Richard. “Would you grieve for the Duke of Austria?”

“No, but I would pray for his soul. I’d say he is much in need of prayers, my liege, wouldn’t you?”

Richard agreed that was so and after leading the bishop to the dais, he shared, with considerable relish, the letter he’d just received from his friend and ally the Archbishop of Cologne. “I am not utterly heartless,” he concluded. “So I was not sorry to hear that Leopold was reconciled with the Church on his deathbed. I have a legitimate grievance against the man, but not for all eternity.” Signaling for a servant to bring wine for the bishop, Richard indulged himself for a moment by imaging Heinrich or Philippe suffering Leopold’s wretched fate, for they deserved it more than the Austrian duke. He had a truly blasphemous thought then, that even the Almighty was making Leopold the scapegoat, and he said hastily, “At least none will doubt now that God is on my side.”

Hugh blinked in surprise. “Did you ever doubt that, sire?”

Richard looked at him and then away, gazing toward the molten gold flames surging in the hearth. “No,” he said, having hesitated long enough to tell Hugh he lied, “I did not. But others did.”

“Not anymore,” Hugh assured him. “I daresay Leopold’s ghastly death will give the German emperor some uneasy moments. The French king, too. No one will ever again dare to defy Holy Church and harm a man who has taken the cross. So,” he added, with a mischievous glint, “your ordeal was not for naught, sire.”

“It was well worth it, then,” Richard said, but the bishop was unfazed by his sarcasm.

“I am looking forward to meeting your queen. I was told she passed Christmas here at Chinon whilst you were at Rouen.”

Richard decided to ignore that implied reproach. “My queen is no longer at Chinon, my lord bishop. Soon after Epiphany, she moved her household to the castle of Beaufort-en-Vallée, not far from Angers.”

Hugh thought that Richard and his queen were like two ships at sea, never getting within hailing distance of each other. Leaning forward, he pitched his voice for Richard’s ear alone. “May we speak in private, my liege?”

Whenever people asked for a private audience, that usually meant they wanted something. The risk was even greater with clerics, for they could also have a lecture in mind. But Richard’s respect for the Bishop of Lincoln was genuine; besides, he liked the man. So he ordered all the others away from the dais and out of earshot.

“Did you know that you are my parishioner, my lord king? You were born at Oxford, which is in the diocese of Lincoln, and this means that on the Day of Judgment, I shall have to answer for your soul. I would ask you, therefore, to tell me the state of your conscience, so I can give you effective counsel as the Holy Spirit shall direct me.”

Richard was amused by this unexpected approach. “My conscience is at ease, my lord bishop, although I freely admit that I harbor great hatred toward my enemies and cannot forgive them for the wrongs they have done me.”

“Scriptures say that
When the ways of a man are pleasing to the Lord, He shall make his enemies wish for peace.
It grieves me to say this, but you have fallen into sin. It is commonly reported that you are not faithful to your marriage bed.”

Richard was no longer so amused, but he kept his temper under a tight rein. “Are there not enough unfaithful husbands in England to occupy you, my lord bishop?”

Hugh smiled. “Ah, but a king’s sins attract more attention than those of lesser men. So you do not deny it?”

Richard found it difficult to be angry with such a good-humored admonishment. “No, I do not deny it. But my wife and I are often apart, for I am fighting a war, and whilst you may not understand this, my lord bishop, a man’s body hungers for more than food.”

“Of course I understand the lure of the flesh, all too well!”

Richard was quite interested in this revelation, for he’d assumed that saintly men like Hugh were immune to such temptations. “You?”

“Yes, me. I may wear a bishop’s miter, but I am still a man like all others. Especially when I was young, I had to struggle fiercely in the war against lust.”

“We differ there, then,” Richard said with a laugh. “That is the only war in which I was willing to make an unconditional surrender.”

Hugh smiled again, but he was not distracted from his purpose. “Adultery is a more serious sin than fornication, sire. Each time you betray your marriage vows, you put your immortal soul in peril. Nor is infidelity your only transgression. You do not keep inviolate the privileges of the Church, especially in the matter of the appointment or election of bishops. It is said that you have promoted men out of friendship or because they have paid you for it, and simony is a heinous sin. If it is true, God will not grant you peace.”

Richard studied the other man, feeling what his father had often felt in his dealings with Hugh of Lincoln, resentment at his remarkable candor mingling with admiration for his courage. “I do not deny that I have sold offices, and I do not apologize for it; my need for money is an urgent one, first to defend the Holy Land and now to defend my own domains. But I will concede that the sale of bishoprics is a more serious sin than the sale of sheriffdoms. I will consider what you have said, my lord bishop, and I would ask for your prayers.”

“Gladly, my liege,” Hugh said, bestowing his blessings upon the king before Richard summoned his steward to escort the bishop to his lodgings in the castle. Richard was standing on the dais, watching Hugh depart, his expression bemused. When he was joined by Guillain and Morgan, he saw that they were curious about his private colloquy with the prelate. “The good bishop has been chiding me for my manifold sins. I fear that I shall have to stop.”

They both looked surprised. “Sinning?” Morgan blurted out, sounding so dubious that Richard grinned.

“No, listening to churchmen.” They laughed, and Hugh, by then at the door of the great hall, glanced over his shoulder with another smile, untroubled by their levity. He well knew that it was no easy task to uproot sin in a royal garden, but he was a patient gardener.

E
LEANOR REGARDED HER SON
pensively, trying to decide if she should broach the subject of his marriage, as Joanna had been urging. He’d just told her he was leaving Chinon for another quick trip to his newly fortified stronghold at Pont de l’Arche, where he was having great success in penning up the French garrison at Vaudreuil Castle, part of the war of attrition he was waging against Philippe, their truce notwithstanding. In mid-March, he was meeting the Duchess of Brittany at Angers in an effort—probably in vain, he conceded—to reconcile her with her husband, the Earl of Chester, for he hoped Randolph might convince Constance to let her son Arthur be raised at his court. After that, he would be holding his Easter Court at Le Mans. Since Le Mans was just fifty miles from Beaufort-en-Vallée, where Berengaria and Joanna were currently residing, that made up Eleanor’s mind.

“Do you intend to celebrate Easter with Berengaria?”

She’d taken him by surprise, as his evasive answer made clear. “I have not given my Easter Court much thought yet, Maman. It is only January, after all.”

“Richard . . . even if she no longer pleases you, you cannot consider ending the marriage. The alliance with Navarre is too valuable to lose.”

“I am well aware of that,” he said, scowling. “Nor has Berenguela done anything to displease me.”

Eleanor rose and sat down beside him in the window-seat. “Then why are you suddenly so loath to spend any time with her, dearest?”

With anyone else, he’d have flared up, using anger to ward off this intrusion into his heart and mind. He could feel heat rising in his face, for he had no answer to her question. He did not understand himself why he was no longer comfortable with his wife, why her very presence reminded him of all he’d lost since leaving the Holy Land. “I am fighting a war,” he said curtly. “Right now I can think only about defending my lands and retaking what the French king seized whilst I was a prisoner. There will be time enough for my wife once our empire is no longer in such danger.”

Eleanor had rarely felt so helpless. He was hurting and she’d have given anything to heal that hurt, but there was nothing she could do. “You are right, Richard,” she said, for at least she could stop probing this painful wound. “You must give priority to the threat posed by the French.” He did not reply, merely nodding, but she sensed his relief, and she made haste to find a safer topic of conversation. “What is this I hear about your confrontation with a priest, Fulk de Neuilly?”

“Oh, that,” he said, and when he smiled, she knew she’d made the right choice. “He is one of those vexing preachers who enjoy making foreboding prophesies and claiming divine powers. This Fulk de Neuilly contends that the Almighty has blessed him with the ability to cure the blind, the lame, and the dumb. He also insists he can drive out demons and get harlots and usurers to see the error of their ways, and for all I know, he thinks he can walk on water, too. In other words, the sort of sanctimonious, prideful fool that any sensible person would take good care to avoid. After predicting that Philippe or I would meet an ‘unfortunate death’ if we do not end our hostilities, he made a dramatic appearance in Rouen, taking me to task for my sins.”

“He accused you of having three daughters?” Eleanor asked, even though she knew exactly what had transpired between Richard and the self-professed holy man, for her son’s riposte had quickly been repeated with zest, taking no time at all to spill from Normandy into Anjou.

“Three shameless daughters, he declared, warning that I must marry them off as soon as possible lest evil befall me. Of course I said he lied, that I had no daughters. And he replied that my three daughters were pride, avarice, and lust. So I told him that I would give my pride to the Knights Templar, my avarice to the Cistercian monks, and my lust to the prelates of the Church.”

It had been a deft rejoinder, showing that Richard could identify a foe’s weaknesses on and off the battlefield, and Eleanor laughed. “I could so easily hear Harry saying that,” she confided, “for you are more like him than either of you were willing to admit.”

“I’ll take your word for that, Maman,” Richard said, before painting a vivid verbal picture of the discomfited prophet slinking away to much laughter from the audience of earls and barons. They were interrupted by a servant bringing in wine and wafers, and by the time they’d eaten, Richard was in better spirits. “I suppose you heard that your friend the Countess of Aumale is now a widow, and probably a merry one since she loved William de Forz not.”

“Yes, I did hear of the count’s death. Sudden chest pains, I believe. And you are right about Hawisa. She saw his death as deliverance.”

“She will not be pleased, then, when she learns that I intend for her to marry again.”

Eleanor was not surprised, for great heiresses were valuable assets, used by kings to reward loyal vassals and to forge alliances. She felt some sympathy, knowing Hawisa would have no say in the matter, but she’d learned years ago to pick her battles and this was the price Hawisa must pay for her good fortune in being highborn and wealthy. “Whom do you have in mind for her, Richard?”

“A good man,” he said, although that had not been his reason for choosing Hawisa’s next husband. “When he gets back from Austria, I mean to give her to Baldwin de Bethune. I owe him an heiress, for my father had promised him Denise de Déols and I gave her, instead, to André.”