A Place Beyond Courage (13 page)
Throughout the night, people came and went from the royal apartments: Grimbald the physician, the Beaumont twins, the Bishop of Rouen, Henry’s chaplains and Robert of Gloucester. John worked steadily, making lists and tallies while keeping his ears and his door open. He offset the discomfort of the dank November evening by spreading his spare cloak over his lap, keeping the fire going in the small central hearth and warming a jug of wine on the embers.
A little before dawn, a bleary Robert of Gloucester put his head around John’s door. ‘Do you never stop?’ he asked irritably.
‘Not when there’s work to be done.’ John left his seat at the trestle and went to pour hot wine from jug to goblet. ‘How is the King?’
‘Sick.’ Robert took the cup from him. ‘Very sick, if I am being honest. He’s still purging even though there’s nothing to bring up. He shouldn’t have eaten so many lampreys.’
‘Anyone else been taken ill?’
‘Not that I’m aware, but it only takes one bad fish, and he gorged on them. You know how fond he is. Martel ate one from the same dish and he’s not suffering.’ He bit his thumbnail. ‘I am wondering whether to send a messenger to my sister in Anjou, but perhaps it’s too soon. We’ve all had nights like this.’
John agreed politely that they had.
As Robert drank he glanced at the parchments on the board. He read the list and his eyes narrowed with anger.
John faced Robert without chagrin or apology. ‘It’s as well to be prepared,’ he said in a pragmatic voice. Someone had to think about a sturdy cart to bear a coffin and decent horses to pull it, rather than the usual jades used for haulage. Then there was the matter of salt to pack the eviscerated body, the coffin itself, the silk for the shrouds. They didn’t just materialise out of thin air.
Robert heaved a grim sigh. ‘Yes, you’re right, but I pray your forethought is in vain, because God help us all if it is not.’
When Robert had gone, John methodically tidied the trestle, told his squire not to disturb him except for a dire emergency, and went to lie down on his pallet. Now that he had completed his preliminary work and had the latest details on the state of the King’s health, he could afford to rest for a few hours. If this was Henry’s death struggle, John knew he would soon have no time for sleep at all. Henry’s powerful personality was what glued his barons together. No one would dare to flout his authority while he gripped the reins of government in his fists, but with him gone there would be mayhem.
The rain sluiced down the roof shingles, dripped off the eaves and splashed into the courtyard, filling the puddles, creating a muddy brown sauce through which men paddled, grimacing. The yard poultry huddled in the lee of buildings, fluffing up their feathers and grumbling. If people had to cross from one building to another, they ran, splashing their hose and soaking their shoes.
John stood sentinel in the King’s chamber, acting as usher, his mace of office resting in the crook of his arm. The sound of the rain formed a backdrop to the happenings in the room, not soothing or soporific, but monotonous and irritating, heightening tension.
Henry lay in his bed, propped upright against a mass of pillows and bolsters. His formerly robust and ruddy features were sucked-in and cadaverous and his stare, socketed in purple shadows, was glazed and unknowing. His chest heaved with the effort to breathe.
‘Sire.’ The Earl of Leicester leaned over Henry and grasped his hand. ‘Will you name your successor so that those gathered here may do your bidding? We need to know.’
Henry closed his eyes. His swallow was audible to all in the room. ‘I am not dead yet,’ he said in a rusty voice. ‘I am the King.’
‘Yes, sire, but . . .’
‘But nothing. Robert, are you there? My son?’
‘Sire . . . my lord father.’ Gloucester shouldered Leicester roughly away and knelt at his father’s side.
Henry gathered himself. ‘Take money from the treasury in Rouen and pay all my officers what is owing to them. Give them their Christmas robes - whether I am here or not.’
‘I will see it done, sire.’
Henry gave a faint nod. ‘Do it now, as soon as you leave the room. Also, you know it is my wish to be buried at Reading . . .’ His hollow gaze fixed on the nobles gathered around his bed. ‘I hold all of you, on your oaths, to bring me there and see me interred . . . all of you.’
Listening to him, John pondered the mingling of astute political acumen and delusion. On one level, Henry had accepted he was dying. Forcing his magnates to stay together on oath until they had brought him to Reading Abbey meant they would have to remain in each other’s company and work together. Yet refusing to name his successor revealed that Henry was not ready to relinquish power until the bitter end . . . and that was dangerous.
‘Sire . . . we need to know,’ said Waleran of Meulan. ‘Will you tell us whom you intend to succeed you?’
Henry closed his eyes and turned his head aside on the bolster, abjuring all contact. ‘You should not have to ask,’ he said.
John remained on duty for the rest of the day, not always in the chamber, but on the prowl like a restless beast. Already the shadows were darker and there were things in them that prickled his nape. When he finally returned to his lodging for a moment’s respite, his senior knight Benet de Tidworth was waiting for him in the company of Walchelin his cook, the latter armed with a platter of hot griddle cakes, and both men looked grim.
John’s gaze snapped from one to the other. ‘What’s wrong?’ Taking a griddle cake, he bit into it.
‘Tell him,’ Benet said with a jerk of his head.
Walchelin hitched the linen apron knotted at his hip. ‘I was talking to one of the King’s cooks. He says he thinks Henry was poisoned.’
In the middle of swallowing, John almost choked. He coughed hard and recovered. ‘Someone was always bound to make that comment. Why should it be more than rumour?’
‘Because the man who gutted the fish was a stranger, my lord. He’d been hanging round the kitchen door begging for work and the cook took him on for a penny. Not been seen since, has he?’
John shrugged. ‘Surely that’s the way of casual hire. With the King sick, he’d not stay around to face inevitable accusations.’ He gave Walchelin a keen stare. His cook enjoyed gossip, but he wasn’t a fool, and Benet was the most dependable man he knew. ‘What makes you think he’s a poisoner?’
‘The cook saw him talking to William Martel in the privy later in the day and Martel gave him more silver.’
The prickling at John’s nape extended down his spine. ‘That doesn’t mean he poisoned the King’s dish.’
‘No, my lord, but Martel was the one who brought the lampreys to the table.’
John went to pour himself wine from the flagon. ‘Why should Martel desire the King’s death?’ He had to stop himself from sniffing suspiciously at his cup. ‘He even ate from the King’s plate, so I’ve been told.’
‘That I don’t know, my lord. I’m only telling you what I’ve heard.’
‘There are many reasons why Martel might have been exchanging silver in a latrine.’
‘Yes, sir, but I thought you would want to know all the same.’
‘I do, and thank you.’
Walchelin gave a brusque nod. ‘Do you not want these, my lord? They’ll soon be cold.’ A wounded expression filled his eyes.
John shook his head. ‘No offence to your skills,’ he said, ‘but suddenly I’m not hungry. Share them around the men - and I trust you to keep your own mouth shut unless you’re putting food in it.’
Walchelin took the platter and bowed out. Benet looked at his lord. ‘You believe him then, sire?’
John drank. ‘I believe that a chance-come lackey was employed to gut fish and that William Martel had cause to pay him in secret, but as to the rest . . .’ He contemplated the cup. ‘Before you can accuse, you need proof.’
‘Are you going to say anything?’
John met Benet’s knowing, shrewd stare. ‘What good would it do?’ he said after a long pause. ‘Martel is Henry’s cup-bearer, not a great lord. If he paid a hireling to poison the King’s dinner, then someone higher up will have paid or promised Martel.’ He finished his wine and set his cup down. ‘Even if it is true, the deed is done. I’ll poke a wasp’s nest when I have to, but otherwise leave well alone. I don’t want to die with a dagger in my back or face down in a puddle of poisoned wine. This conversation never took place.’
Benet nodded and compressed his lips as if setting a seal on the command.
‘Better find the cook with the loose tongue and tell him if he wants to keep it, to put it behind his teeth.’
‘I’ll see to it, my lord.’
When Benet had gone, John poured himself a second measure of wine, and stood at his lodging door, staring out at the rainy courtyard. His expression was composed and his hand steady as he drank, but he was thinking fast and contemplating options and consequences. Walchelin’s news, in hindsight, didn’t surprise him. In a game of chess there was always a moment when someone made a decisive move.
Robert of Gloucester emerged from the sickroom, his broad shoulders slumped with weariness. Seeing John standing in the doorway, he walked over to join him.
‘He won’t last much longer.’ He rubbed his hands over his face. ‘He still won’t name his successor, but surely there is no choice. Surely he desires his own grandson to wear the crown one day. Why doesn’t he speak?’ His voice was heavy with frustration and weariness.
‘Before his grandson can wear a crown, the Empress must do so first and with Geoffrey of Anjou as her consort,’ John said. ‘Your father knows such a detail sticks in men’s gullets. Why else twice-bind them with oaths?’
Robert looked grim. ‘There’s little left of him now that’s knowing or rational, but you would think after he made men swear, he would cling to that instinct. Instead he . . .’ He broke off and shook his head. ‘He keeps saying, “Stephen’s a man, Stephen’s a man.” ’
John gave him a keen look. ‘He’s named Stephen?’
‘No. When he’s asked to confirm he intends Stephen to follow him, he doesn’t answer. It’s as if he can’t bring himself to do it. Anyway, Stephen is his father’s second son. Theobald is before him in line.’ Robert’s mouth twisted as if he had tasted something so bitter it was unpalatable. ‘My sister is the rightful heir and her son after her. My oath is to them, and I hold by it.’
John had felt a jolt go through him at Robert’s mention of Stephen. He didn’t believe Stephen was capable of murdering his uncle in order to seize power, but he did believe he was ambitious enough to take it should someone pave the way for him. There were plenty of such men at court, including some attending the deathbed.
‘You say nothing?’ Robert’s tone quickened. ‘You swore the oath too.’
‘So did most men here,’ John replied, ‘but oaths can be absolved if sworn under duress, as everyone knows. There are certain bishops who believe that being ruled by a woman goes against nature and you will find plenty of the magnates feel the same way.’
‘You included?’
John gave a humourless smile. ‘I am the King’s marshal and until your father dies, my loyalty is to him. Once he is gone, I hope to serve his successor, but whether it be man, woman, or babe in the cradle remains the choice of other men.’
Robert’s upper lip curled. ‘You mean you’ll bury your conscience. Tell me this: if he names my sister, will you serve her?’
‘I will give my oath to the anointed sovereign,’ John said neutrally.
Robert looked disgusted. ‘I thought better of you. Well, I tell you, neither Stephen nor any of his cronies will receive a welcome in my strongholds. I’m putting Dover and Southampton on alert as of now.’
‘In your place I would do the same, my lord. I would hope for the outcome I want, but be prepared for it to go the opposite way and to have the wherewithal to bargain at my disposal.’
‘So it comes down to price. Would you have me sell my honour?’
John shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No man should do that, but he should expect to receive due payment for what he is worth.’
In the dull, cold dawn of an early December morning after three days of hard struggle to stay in the world, Henry, King of England and Duke of Normandy, died without openly naming a successor. He had not spoken since the previous evening, and had said nothing significant even then, for words had been almost beyond him and all coherence gone. Robert of Gloucester wept over his body and he was not alone in his grief, but others exchanged knowing glances, in which there was an equal mingling of relief and apprehension. And for some there was triumph and a burden of guilt.
Returning to his chamber, John gazed around the room as if it belonged to a stranger. Osbert, his chamberlain, had left food, wine and washing water to hand. Everything was the same and yet it seemed distorted - as if visual perception had been knocked awry. Probably just tiredness, he told himself as he sat down in the barrel chair near his bed. The clean, crisp sheets beckoned him, but he didn’t want to lie down - not after seeing Henry’s last struggle and knowing what he knew.
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