The Autumn Throne (46 page)

In the immediate silence after his leaving, Alienor leaned her elbows on the trestle and put her head in her hands.

‘It is a blatant forgery, as the Count of Mortain must well know,’ Walter of Coutances said with contempt. ‘I think we are all in agreement that we shall do nothing until we know more, save to guard the realm from the depredation of wolves.’

‘And if he is right?’ Alienor said bleakly, lowering her hands. ‘What then?’

‘Then, madam, we have clear consciences and know we have steered a careful and judicious course.’

Another fortnight passed without news of Richard or the two abbots who had gone in search of him. Alienor kept herself intensely busy sorting out finances, organising, administrating and writing numerous letters. She thought of Richard constantly, but she never stopped, because moments of stillness brought unbearable thoughts and visions.

John had stormed off and locked himself up in Windsor
which, together with Wallingford, was now being besieged by the justiciars. She knew John had to be contained, but she was worried, because if he did become King, men would view him as someone they could challenge and defeat, and thus the entire dynasty would be undermined.

She was sorting through a pile of parchments when William Marshal arrived to see her. With a broad smile on his face he deposited a small barrel on the trestle in front of her.

‘A contribution from the King of France, madam, delivered to our own shores by an escort of Flemings in a fine seaworthy ship.’

Alienor raised her brows.

‘Three shiploads of Flemish mercenaries beached near Shoreham, but the local folk were waiting to deal with them. This was on board one of the ships.’ He prised off the lid to show her a mass of silver pennies. ‘Fifty marks all told. Two of the ships have been commandeered for either use or sale and the sheriff gave the smallest one to the captors with a shilling each for their vigilance and stout protection.’

‘Should we be alarmed?’ she asked. ‘Was this a forward investigation of our defences?’

He shook his head. ‘The shore watch is diligent and the only reports are of isolated raids and small groups trying to make their way to Wallingford and Windsor. Another group of ten was taken on a fishing boat the day before yesterday, so it appears there is not going to be a great invasion.’

‘That at least is good news. I am pleased our vigilance is paying off.’ She put her hand in the barrel and trickled the top layer of coins through her fingers. ‘There is no news from Windsor?’

‘No, madam.’

Unspoken between them lay the knowledge that the siege, although being pursued, was not biting hard because she had ordered the justiciars not to force John to a humiliating defeat. She wanted him to sue for a truce of his own accord and for an amicable agreement to be reached, although for that to
happen he had to change his attitude towards Richard. ‘I …’ She stopped and looked up as an usher entered the room and hurried over to her, almost tripping in his haste, his face red with excitement.

‘Madam, madam! The Abbots of Boxley and Robertsbridge are here, and the Bishop of Salisbury!’

Alienor’s heart lurched. Hubert Walter, Bishop of Salisbury, had been with Richard in the Holy Land. Now she would have her answer for better or worse. ‘Bring them to me straight away.’ She turned to William. ‘I want you to stay and hear what is said – and sustain me if it is the worst news.’

‘Of course, madam.’ He bowed.

The men were shown into the room and made their obeisances. All three were travel-weary and grey with dust but in good heart. ‘Madam, the King is alive and in strong health and spirits all considering,’ said the Abbot of Boxley. ‘He is being held in the castle of Trifels and he sends you greetings from there and begs that you move all forward to expedite his release.’

‘I have letters.’ Hubert Walter placed a satchel before her. He was tall, urbane and handsome with a mind as sharp as a razor and a formidable head for figures that meant he could out-calculate most men when it came to fiscal reckoning. He had been journeying home via Rome and, having heard what was happening, had diverted to Germany to join the other clergymen.

‘I knew he wasn’t dead.’ Alienor swallowed tears. Knowing that these men had seen Richard filled her with a desperate hunger to do that for herself, and knowing she could not was torture. ‘What do we have to do to gain his freedom?’

Hubert Walter’s handsome features contorted with displeasure. ‘There is a ransom demand, madam, and also a demand for hostages.’

‘As expected, and we have been preparing.’ She sent a servant to bring food and wine for the men, and opened the letters, but her eyes were too blurred with age and tears to
read them, and she passed them back to Hubert Walter. ‘Read,’ she said.

The Bishop cleared his throat. His voice was deep and resonant – the kind to hold a congregation in thrall.

Richard addressed her as ‘Sweet mother’, and Alienor clenched her fists at those words. He said that all was well, but he needed her to secure his release as swiftly as possible. The ransom terms had been agreed and once the sum of seventy thousand marks was paid he would be freed, so long as hostages from his own family were provided as surety for another thirty thousand.

Alienor stared at Hubert Walter dumbstruck. ‘A hundred thousand marks?’ That was well beyond her reckoning.

He met her appalled gaze, then flicked his own briefly to William, who was impassive. ‘Madam, I am afraid so. We could not negotiate a lesser sum. Indeed, I am sorry to say there is more, for the King also agreed to give the Emperor fifty galleys and two hundred knights for a year.’

‘That is ridiculous!’ Alienor snapped. She had always known the Emperor would make Richard pay and not release him easily, but this was out of bounds. The sum demanded would nigh on beggar them and make them weaker – which was what Heinrich probably intended. ‘What else does he say?’

Hubert Walter applied himself to the letter again. Richard recommended him as the next Archbishop of Canterbury and suggested that she give him a key role in helping to raise the ransom. He also expressed a desire for William Longchamp to be involved in delivering the hostages and the money to Germany. Alienor nodded as she listened. Longchamp was an insufferable nuisance, but his loyalty to Richard was not in doubt and at least he would be positively utilised. She had no objection to Hubert Walter being Archbishop of Canterbury and was happy to promote his election.

‘On the matter of the Count of Mortain,’ Hubert continued, ‘the King says that his brother is not a man to win his lands by the sword if anyone should offer him the slightest force
in resistance and he says not to worry, he will be easily overcome.’

‘Nevertheless it is best to negotiate a truce. We need peace if we are to raise this ransom, not strife.’ Alienor touched the barrel of silver pennies.

‘Indeed, madam. The King leaves it in your hands, and asks that you write to the Pope in the strongest terms.’

‘It shall be done immediately.’

The food and drink arrived, as did Walter of Coutances, out of breath. The letter was read out again, and soon they were embroiled in discussing how to obtain the massive ransom. Alienor was appalled by the size of it, by how much of the country’s resources would be drained, and also by how unpopular it was going to be. It was one hill to climb after another and she felt like a beast of burden with the world on her back.

As they were discussing how to raise money from wool clips, taxes and donations, one of Hubert Walter’s knights entered the room bearing a heavy leather sack that jingled as he put it down at the Bishop’s feet. Two squires followed the knight with a stand and two poles.

‘I have the King’s hauberk,’ Hubert announced.

Rolled up inside the leather was Richard’s mail shirt, which Alienor had last seen him wearing as he rode out from Vezelay three years ago. His helm and coif were there too, his chausses, and even one of his swords. Hubert directed the squires to arrange the gear on the poles. The hauberk had areas of rust and tarnish from confinement and travel, and in places torn links hung down like iron tears.

‘The King says it is to be put on public display in London and then it is to be sent around the kingdom in order to encourage everyone to contribute to the ransom,’ said Hubert.

Alienor shivered, because it truly seemed that Richard’s presence occupied the room.

‘It will have to be cleaned,’ said Walter de Coutances, frowning. ‘No one will believe that this is the armour of a king.’

‘But
it needs to be seen to have been worn in the service of Christendom,’ William Marshal said, turning to Alienor. ‘If you will trust me, madam, I shall see it refurbished to fit status, yet retaining the marks of honourable battle.’

‘Thank you.’ Alienor’s eyes prickled with tears. ‘I would trust you the most of all my lords to perform this task. You know my son, and you have been a soldier for Christendom yourself.’

‘It will be my honour, madam.’

When the meeting ended and everyone went their separate ways to their duties, William remained behind to help his own knight Jean D’Earley return the hauberk to its leather sack.

‘It will take some work,’ D’Earley observed, rubbing the back of his neck.

William was undaunted. ‘Nothing that a vigorous rolling in a barrel of sand won’t cure.’

Alienor picked up Richard’s arming cap. The linen was slick with the dark grease of constant wear mingled with iron filaments from the coif. ‘This should stay as it is. It speaks as much if not more than the rest. Here is a man who has fought and toiled for his saviour, who has sweated and bled and been brought low by vile traitors. They need to see this as much as his sword.’ She managed to stop herself from pressing the coif to her face.

William nodded agreement. ‘You are right, madam. Sometimes the smaller details point up the greater ones.’ His eyes were troubled. ‘I am sorry you have this grief on your shoulders. Seeing these things must distress you even while they are a comfort, but we will raise the ransom, and he will return.’

‘Yes,’ she said fiercely. ‘I will move heaven and earth for that, William.’

Later, sitting in her chamber, Alienor wiped away the tears trickling down her face and drank her wine. It was her third cup in a short time and she knew she should slow down. She had spent the last hour with diplomat and court scribe Peter
of Blois, drafting a letter to the Pope. Several times she had had to stop because the emotions coursing through her were too painful, but on each occasion she had rallied and moved on. Peter of Blois was renowned for his eloquence with a quill, and she knew he would turn the piece into a work of art.

Pope Celestine was eighty-seven years old and she had her doubts about how effective her letter was going to be even if it were the most persuasive on earth, but she needed to say these things. Today had been terrible. Trying to keep a balance between the justiciars and John was an impossible task. John was her son; she loved him dearly, and tried not to think she was making excuses for him. But the justiciars thought she was, even William, who was staunchly loyal to her. But what else was she to do? Have one son imprisoned in Germany and another here? Have no sons at all?

‘Read it to me,’ she commanded with a wave of her hand.

Peter of Blois had written the letter on a series of wax tablets and now he laid down his stylus and shuffled through them to the first one.

‘
To her revered Father and Lord Celestine, highest pontiff by the grace of God, Alienor, a wretched and to be pitied – if only she were – queen of the English, Duchess of Normandy, Countess of Anjou, begging him to show himself the father of mercy to the suffering mother.’

Alienor nodded and bit her lip. ‘Go on.’

‘I am in such anguish within and without that my words are filled with grief. I am wasted away by sorrow until the very marrow of my bones is dissolved in tears. I have lost the staff of my old age and the light of my eyes and it would answer my prayers if God condemned my eyes to perpetual blindness so they might no longer see the ills of my people.

‘Holy Mother of mercy, look on my misery, and if your son, an endless font of mercy, exacts the sins of the mother from the son, let Him only exact them from me, not the innocent. Let Him destroy me, let Him not spare me. Pitiful and pitied by no one, why have I come to the ignominy of this detestable old age, who was ruler of two kingdoms, mother of two kings? My family is carried off and removed from me. The Young
King and the Count of Brittany sleep in dust, and their most unhappy mother is compelled to be irredeemably tormented by the memory of the dead.

‘Two sons remain to my solace, who today survive to punish me. King Richard is held in chains. His brother, John, depletes his kingdom with the sword and lays it waste with fire. My sons fight amongst themselves, if it is a fight where one is restrained in chains, and the other, adding sorrow to sorrow, undertakes to usurp the kingdom of the exiled by cruel tyranny
.’

Peter of Blois paused reading and looked up. Alienor swallowed and wiped her eyes again. There was compassion in his gaze and shrewdness also. ‘Do you need a moment, madam?’

She shook her head. ‘No, continue – unless of course you do.’

‘Madam, I am able,’ he said, ‘but there is indeed great power in these words.’

‘Let us pray enough to move mountains. I would do that and more for my child.’

Peter of Blois took a drink from his cup, cleared his throat and resumed, pushing one tablet aside, picking up another.

‘Why do I, wretched, delay and not go to see the one whom my soul loves conquered by poverty and iron? How could a mother forget the son of her womb for so long? But if I go, deserting my son’s kingdom, that is laid waste on all sides with grave hostility, it will be deprived of all counsel and comfort in my absence. If I remain, I shall not see the face I most desire, of my son. There will be no one to zealously procure the freedom of my son and, what I fear even more, with the impossible quantity of money, is that my son will be driven to death by his tortures.’