The Devil is Loose Read online

  There were many who regarded Geoffrey as a more likely Angevin than either Richard or John. True, he shared Richard’s energy and physical courage and, to a lesser extent, John’s natural cunning. But he was more persistent than either of them. It was said that Richard could be halted by flattery, and John by a brandished feather. But Geoffrey had inherited his father’s stubbornness and tenacity, and he was not so easily put off. He was six years older than the Lionheart, sixteen years older than Lackland. And, as with most high-sired bastards, he was required to work harder and look further and move faster, in order to earn his keep.

  Apart from this, two things separated him from his brothers. His hair was prematurely grey and, if the list of deserters was reliable, he was the only one to have remained loyal to the king.

  He was on his way to Chinon when the scouts brought him the bad news. He had just completed a tour of Normandy, where he had gained the support of the powerful Norman barons. Instil some sense in your father, they’d told him, and we will supply him with an army. But he must make his way north; we will not fight across three rivers to be surrounded by the French.

  However, Henry Plantagenet would only travel to a graveyard now, and his only support would come from his pallbearers…

  Geoffrey took the news calmly. He had half-expected it and, if there was any weeping to be done, it would be in private. He asked if William Marshal was in command at Chinon, and was cheered by the answer. In return, the scouts inquired as to the whereabouts of John Lackland.

  ‘I have no idea,’ he told them. ‘I’ve neither seen nor heard of him since Le Mans. Has he not been with the king?’

  The scouts shook their heads. They knew John’s name had topped the French list, but they were soldiers, not sacrificial lambs. Let someone else tell the volatile Geoffrey about the death-dealing signature.

  They took him back the way they had come, avoiding the French patrols, then left Marshal to show him the parchment that had broken Henry’s heart.

  ‘How well do you know John’s writing?’ Marshal asked. ‘Is this his hand?’

  ‘Hell!’ Geoffrey erupted. ‘What does it matter? If that vermin had been truly loyal to our father, as you and I have been, they would not have attempted such a trick. If it had read “William Marshal” where it reads “Prince John”, King Henry would have howled with scorn. You’re over precise, sir. It’s the effect that proves it, not the cause.’

  Give him time to cool, Marshal told himself. This is as bad a blow as a man can take. And perhaps he’s right. ‘Perhaps John’s absence is proof enough.’ He realized with a start that he had spoken the last few words aloud.

  ‘Present or absent,’ Geoffrey snapped, ‘I tell you, it doesn’t matter. It satisfies me that my brother’s actions do not disprove the signature. It’s the nature of the beast that counts. If he did not personally put pen to paper, he gave the forger his blessing. He’s with Philip and Richard now, rely on it. Oh, not in their camp, necessarily, but with them, none the less.’ He glanced at the list again, then tossed it aside, as though it had been used to wrap some diseased carcase. ‘It is at times like this,’ he said, ‘that I favour bastardy.’

  * * *

  Malchat returned from the French camp to report that Duke Richard was on his way. He greeted Geoffrey FitzRoy in the main hall of the keep, then told the weary commanders, ‘He says ­– and these are his words – “I’ll come as soon as I’ve eaten.” I saw the food being served as I left.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thing,’ Marshal commented dryly, ‘to witness a sorrowing prince. Between mouthfuls, did he say how many mourners would keep him company?’

  ‘He did. Among other things. His actual message was that you and des Roches are to stop trembling. He will not bring an army, for fear of suffocating you with the dust. He’ll arrive with only twenty men, and knock politely at the gate. Two light taps, so you’ll know it’s him and not be terrified.’ He looked directly at Marshal. ‘You did say he would be free with his insults.’

  ‘Was John there?’

  ‘Not that I saw. Nor Belcourt or Canton, or any of his coterie. King Philip was present, though he contributed nothing. He seemed saddened by the news, but he sent no message. And as for John, he could be anywhere, the French are in Tours and along both banks of the river.’

  Des Roches could take no more of it. He stamped forward and slammed a mailed fist on the edge of a long, trestle table. Forgetting that he was in the presence of Richard’s brother, he cursed the Lionheart for a traitor and a coward. ‘We’ll see who trembles, and who shows fear! Christ seal his mouth, or leave it to me! I swear, that man will be held to account before long. I’m to stop trembling, eh? Yes, and then he’ll start trembling!’

  Geoffrey made no attempt to still the outburst, but Marshal said, ‘Let it lie, confrere. There’s no profit in being goaded by his childish taunts. Twenty men, did he say? Well, let’s be cautious, and stand to arms. I’d hate to be overrun by such a well-fed prince.’

  Geoffrey nodded agreement, and in a while the towers of Chinon were bristling with arrows and crossbow bolts, a barbed welcome for England’s heir.

  * * *

  He rode through the gate and into the outer courtyard, followed by his armed companions. True to his word, he had limited the escort to twenty.

  The riders had noticed the archers in the towers, and had reined-in at the foot of the approach path. Then Richard had said something to them and spurred forward, his barked laugh carrying up the hillside to the castle. Heartened by his words, the knights had grinned at each other and continued upward. But by the time they had reached the barbican gate they had erased all traces of humour.

  He advanced to the centre of the bailey, nodded left and right at certain members of the group, then swung himself to the ground. Six of the knights dismounted, gave their horses to the remaining riders and followed their master towards the inner gate. He had been to Chinon before, and his knowledge of the palace allowed him to make his way without directions. It also enabled him to ignore his bastard brother and the men who had baulked him at the bridge. Sparing them no more than a glance, he went on into the inner courtyard and up the steps to the keep.

  His knights were not so willing to slight Geoffrey FitzRoy, but, when none of Henry’s commanders moved to intercept them, they clattered after Richard. A few of them noticed that Malchat had positioned himself in front of des Roches, and that when des Roches edged to the left, the steward went with him. They noticed, too, that the thick-set knight kept his hand on his sword.

  Relying on memory, Richard crossed the gloomy hall, waited scowling for his escort to appear, then ducked through an archway at the rear of the chamber. The six knights followed, though they did not stoop so low. Beyond the arch he turned left, corrected himself and went the other way along a short, unlit corridor. Then, sniffing the air, he turned into the chapel and made curt obeisance before the altar.

  Henry’s body lay at the foot of the cloth-covered table, the dreadful corpse guarded by four whey-faced knights. They had served their hour and were waiting to be relieved. Richard dismissed them with a jerk of his head, and they deserted their posts without a second bidding.

  His own contingent hung back, appalled by the smell, trying hard to convince themselves that he wished for privacy. They masked their faces with their cloaks, and coughed into the linen. Their eyes watered, not entirely from sorrow, and two of them removed their helmets, which seemed suddenly tight against their skulls. Geoffrey had already paid his last respects to his father, but Marshal and Malchat arrived in the doorway, anxious to see how Richard would commune with the king.

  The chapel was illuminated by a dozen sputtering candles, and a thin cross of light admitted through a window above the altar. As the knights peered into the room they saw, or imagined they saw, a trickle of blood leak from Henry’s left nostril. It did not begin until Richard gazed down at the body, and it ceased the instant he turned away. But to those who believed their eyes, the meani
ng was clear – the victim had named his murderer.

  Richard knelt again, down and up, and stood over his father for as long as it would take to gabble a prayer. Then he turned on his heel, brushed past his escort and strode from the chapel. As he shouldered his way between Marshal and the steward, he said, ‘You. William Marshal. Follow me out.’

  Malchat opened his mouth to remonstrate – keep that tone for your dogs – but Marshal nudged him silent. This was not the place to trade insults; nor to draw breath.

  Preceded by the Lionheart, and followed by the six armed mourners, they went back along the corridor and into the hall. Geoffrey and des Roches were there, and it was clear that Richard had once again ignored his brother.

  The young giant made his way across the creaking bridge, and Marshal said, ‘I’m going out with him. Keep these six at a distance. If it comes to blows, it is to remain between Duke Richard and me.’ Turning to the escort, he asked them if they understood. They did not like it, but they nodded, and continued coughing foul air from their chests.

  With an unsuccessful smile for his companions, Marshal crossed the weather-warped planks and went down to the yard. He realized that he was at a grave disadvantage. He had no desire to kill Richard of Aquitaine, but the duke seemed less reluctant.

  * * *

  Richard stood with his back to the keep, twenty feet or so in front of the steps. The archers and men-at-arms had come down from the towers and were now spaced along the walls, looking down into the yard. Richard’s fourteen riders were still in their saddles, though they had been allowed to come through the second gateway into the inner bailey. They, too, were spaced out under the cross-wall, and Richard faced them as he heard Marshal descend the steps.

  Turning slowly, so that his words carried around the yard, he boomed, ‘In your own time, sir. When you are ready. I’ll hear your defence.’ That brought him face to face with Marshal, who said, ‘You will not, Duke Richard. But all Chinon can hear you. If I was intimidated by noise, I’d keep clear of battles and country fairs.’ He moved forward, clear of the steps. If it did come to blows, it would not help to snap his sword on the pyramid. ‘Now, what am I supposed to say, that I regret unhorsing you?’

  ‘Why not? It will do for a start. You realize we came close to killing each other. Had your lance taken me and not my horse— Had I not deflected the weapon with my arm—’

  One moment! ’ Marshal snapped, his voice as loud and intense as Richard’s. ‘You should have learned more about me, prince. I have participated in more than two hundred jousts, around here, and in Normandy, and in your own duchy of Aquitaine. I have made my living at it for years, and you may be assured that I strike where I aim. You did not turn my lance. I lowered the point through sheer good sense. And you are unhurt because of it.’

  Richard had already realized his mistake, and sought another line of attack. What Marshal claimed was true. He was without doubt one of the foremost chevaliers in Europe, and for ten years or more he had travelled from tourney to tourney, competing for the prize-money. To say he could not align a lance was to tell a Viking he was lost at sea. Richard almost wished he had not started the shouting match.

  ‘Say what you will, it’s fortunate for you that I survived.’ ‘For both of us,’ Marshal corrected, ‘though I had no intention of killing you. I told you so at the time. I did not wish to add to your foolishness; merely to stop you.’

  Until now, Richard’s anger had been largely a test of memory, an attempt to recapture his feelings at the bridge. But this last accusation refreshed his fury.

  ‘Foolishness, was it? You guard what you say, William Marshal, before I cut you out!’

  ‘I’ll take care. But you might also be advised, and wear a sword and shield before you next run mad.’

  At the head of the steps, Geoffrey FitzRoy braced himself, sure that the blows would now be struck. Malchat and des Roches watched from the doorway of the keep, the steward praying that the adversaries would hold themselves in check, des Roches willing Marshal to strike first. Throughout the castle, soldiers and servants heard the exchange and waited for the onset. One did not call Richard of Aquitaine a fool and a madman. Nor did one tell Marshal how to couch a lance.

  Drawn to his full height, Richard was a terrifying sight. He was one of the tallest men of the day, and one of the broadest in the shoulder, and anger ran through him like strong, coarse wine. In the years to come he would dominate armies and strengthen the resolve of nations, and would be seen storming up from a Syrian beach, or striding inland to subdue the islands of Sicily and Cyprus. Equipped with a personality that blossomed in indignation, he would show why he was called Lionheart, and why, throughout the West, mothers warned their children to behave, lest Coeur-de-Lion came to swallow them alive.

  But the magic was not yet perfect, and the spell was not working at Chinon. Richard held Marshal’s gaze until his vision blurred, then heard himself laugh and say, ‘All right, it’s good advice. I should have dressed for the occasion. Mind you, I was not to know you had interrupted your retreat.’ ‘No,’ Marshal agreed. ‘You were not.’

  The young prince let his shoulders sag, and his hands came away from his sword. An audible sigh drifted above the yard, for although every man there had seen insults turn to blood, they would not have enjoyed anything more than the vicious skill of the duel. Whoever had triumphed – and with a sword it would most likely have been Duke Richard – Christendom would have lost a champion. These two were not white-faced courtiers, soured on wine or jealousy, but serious men, loyal to their cause. Until now they had been enemies, the one supporting his king, the other fighting to gain his inheritance. But the death of either would have meant an irreplaceable loss, as much for the victor as for England.

  Richard laughed again, and this time there was some warmth in the sound. He was about to show that other part of his nature that endeared him to those he could not crush – his extraordinary magnanimity.

  ‘You insist you could have killed me, had you wished?’

  Marshal shrugged, leaving an affirmative impression.

  ‘And you are quite unrepentant of what you did?’

  Don’t crow, Marshal warned himself. This is a new side to the man. Don’t force him to conceal it.

  Nevertheless, he said, ‘I cannot repent for having halted an adversary. And I only cost you a horse, not your life.’

  ‘A damn fine horse,’ Richard exclaimed, ‘and a blackened arse! I think of you every time I’m seated.’ Then, never less than dramatic, he extended his arms and clasped Marshal in an embrace. With complete sincerity, and able to forget the bloody year that had passed, he said, ‘If my father had had a thousand more of William Marshal, he would not have come to such a— such a paltry end.’

  He leaned forward, his head bowed over Marshal’s shoulder, and as he mourned the circumstances of his father’s death, the occupants of Chinon were treated to the sight of England’s heir weeping on the neck of his erstwhile foe. Geoffrey clicked his tongue and went into the keep to find some wine. He did not believe that Richard possessed one stalk of genuine emotion, but saw him as a consummate actor, the kind that travelled the country, slaying demons at midday, and expiring at dusk. Tomorrow he would kill the same, straw-filled monster, and the villagers would roar approval; tomorrow he would die again in the service of some badly- rehearsed story, and the audience would weep. It was enough to turn a man to the jar.

  For his part, Malchat accepted the reconciliation, and thanked God for it. Now, perhaps, England could be raised from her knees, and the lost territories regained. Richard Lionheart with William Marshal; yes, that was something to be applauded.

  Beside him in the doorway, des Roches thought his friend well placed to draw a dagger and stab Richard in the side.

  While they are clung together like that. Go on, he’s at your mercy…

  But he was to be disappointed, for when Richard had his tears, he and Marshal walked arm-in-arm around the yard. The riders withdrew to t
he outer bailey, while the wall-guards returned to their stations. Des Roches and Malchat joined Geoffrey at the trestle table and invited Richard’s escort to share the wine. Before long, dice appeared, and sword-belts were thrown haphazardly against the wall.

  * * *

  Richard removed his helmet and brushed at his red-and-yellow hair. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘It seems remarkable that you have been so long without lands. What are you, forty? Forty—’

  ‘—three.’

  ‘Forty-three, and still without a fief. It’s unjust. Did my father never promise you anything? He was in the devil’s grip at the end, but if he did make some assurance—’

  ‘Yes,’ Marshal said, ‘he did.’

  ‘Then tell me what it was, and I shall see it’s honoured.’ He glanced across, in part to see if his new friend was inventing a claim, but more because he suspected that Marshal would not yet confide in him. But that was stupid. They were comrades now. He admired the knight!

  Marshal sensed the look and said nothing. Only a fool would put his trust in reconciliatory promises. They were made with too much passion and, like passion, they tended to grow cold. If Richard was serious, he would ask again.

  ‘Did you hear me? If my father made an assurance to you, I shall see it’s honoured.’

  With fine timing, Marshal said, ‘You might think I’d invented it. You have only my word for it; there’s nothing written.’

  ‘God’s legs, I swear you’re out to affront me again! I said I would honour it, and so I will. Tell me what he—’

  ‘The hand of Isabel de Clare.’

  ‘—promised you and – Isabel de Clare? The Earl of Pembroke’s daughter?’ Marshal nodded equably. ‘Do you know of her, prince?’