Robin Hood (13 page)

Guards stood at attention on either side of the dais, a trio of Eleanor's ladies stood off to the side, as did the exchequer and other members of the Privy Council, who attended the king and hung on his every word, as bound to him as the dogs leashed and held by John's sentries.

“Richard's army is coming home,” John said, still playing with the necklace, and sounding both bored and petulant. “To keep it together costs money. Marshal, you speak for the money.”

“I do, Sire, and there's not much to speak of.”

Marshal didn't flinch from the truth. Godfrey had to give him that. But the great knight was too used to serving men like Henry and Richard. The truth wouldn't get him far with John.

“But to disband the army,” Marshal went on, “could cost more than to keep it.”

Godfrey suppressed a smile, amused by what he saw on the king's face. John was as easy to read as a child. He heard the truth in what Marshal was telling him. Whatever else John might have been, he wasn't stupid. He had too much of his father in him to be oblivious to what was happening to the realm. But while he already knew much of what Marshal had told him, he didn't wish to admit as much, either to the knight or to himself. And he surely didn't want to acknowledge it in front of his mother.

Isabella, on the other hand, appeared puzzled by what Marshal had said, and unlike John's wife, the Countess of Gloucester, whom she had displaced, she had just enough nerve and confidence to inject herself into the conversation despite her ignorance.

“
Pourquoi, Chancellor?
” she asked. Why, Chancellor?

Godfrey could see that the question itself infuriated Eleanor, who had yet to accept this woman as a proper consort for her son. She glared at the girl, as if she might will her from the chamber with her eyes. William appeared to be just as offended by the presence of the French princess. His eyes flicked in her direction for an instant, but he refused to dignify her question by answering.

All of this Godfrey saw. All of it worked to his benefit. For he could see as well the resentment building in John's eyes: anger at his mother for not honoring his decision to throw Isabel aside and take this French princess as his wife; distrust of Marshal, who John believed remained more devoted to Eleanor and the memory of Richard than to the current occupant of the throne. Godfrey understood all of this, Marshal none of it; which was why the old knight didn't stand a chance.

“As Your Majesty understands,” Marshal said, “it would put a rabble at loose in the kingdom looking for a paymaster. At the same time, your lands and castles over the water will look ripe for picking and your alliances for unpicking.”

“And yet the cupboard is bare,” John said, sounding bitter. And this, too, Godfrey understood. How much of England's treasure had been spent to fund Richard's ill-fated crusade and to ransom the Lionheart from Trifels?

Marshal, however, had yet to learn the mind of his new liege, and so stepped right into a snare of his own making. “King Richard's campaigns were costly,” he said. “And the expected rewards, unfortunately—”

“What is that to me?” the king demanded, his ire suddenly bared. “My brother's troubles are over. You are
my
minister now, not his. And you tell me I am destitute.”

Once more, Marshal appeared offended, even hurt. He had served two kings prior to John, and Godfrey would have wagered the worth of John's crown that neither man had ever spoken to Marshal in this way.

Right then, Marshal knew that he would have no influence with this king. Godfrey saw the realization hit him, smiled inwardly as the man seemed to sag. But still Godfrey waited. William Marshal was too resilient and wily a warrior to be dismissed so quickly. And at the moment, he was doing more to destroy himself than Godfrey could have done.

The king regarded Marshal archly. “So,” he said, “taxation!”

“Taxation?” Eleanor repeated, disbelief in her rising voice. “Milking a dry udder gets you nothing but kicked off the milking stool.”

“Mother, spare me your farmyard memories. You have none, and I don't understand them.”

The princess grinned; Godfrey suppressed a laugh. He caught the young girl's eye and they shared a smile. Of all the people in this chamber, aside from the king, of course, she was likely to be the most valuable ally he could cultivate.

“Rebellion then,” Eleanor said, clearly miffed at being spoken to so. “Do you understand that?”

John shot her a dark look. As before, he knew that
she was right, and didn't wish to admit it. If she continued this way, she would lose whatever sway she still held with her son. By the end of this day, Godfrey could be rid of his two most formidable rivals for the king's ear.

Marshal cleared his throat, drawing the king's gaze once more. “These are difficult times. They call for restraint on both sides of the ledger: taxing and spending. We can buy time, or rather borrow for it. I can send envoys to secure loans where they may. There's money chests from Sicily to Normandy if you know where to look.”

And in that moment Godfrey saw the opening he had been waiting for.

He stepped forward, emerging from shadow into the warm light that angled through the fine haze of dust hanging in the throne room air.

“Cap in hand to moneylenders,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, his eyes fixed on Marshal. “Your master is a king.”

King John smiled at this. He might even have nodded. Godfrey kept his attention on the old knight. Marshal bowed, as if acknowledging a blow from an opponent in a battle tournament, and stepped aside, leaving the floor in front of the king's throne to Godfrey.

“The Crown is owed money at home,” John said. “The northern barons plead poverty, but that's always been the song of rich men. While King Richard took himself abroad for years to look after our Lord Jesus, Baldwin, Fitzrobert, Loxley, and the rest have looked after themselves. The king's tax collectors have been cheated, gulled, bribed, robbed, and sent on their way with piss-pots emptied from the battlements.”
He looked at Godfrey expectantly. “So, what's to be done?”

John had led himself exactly where Godfrey had hoped he would go. Flies, all of them; and Godfrey the spider.

“Give me leave, Sire, to go north with a company of mounted men. I'll have merchants and landowners fill your coffers or their coffins.”

Marshal looked scandalized. “Englishmen killing Englishmen?”

Godfrey glanced at him, but his response was directed at the king. “No man loyal to the Crown has anything to fear. But loyalty means paying your share in the defense of the realm.”

John nodded, clearly pleased. “That's well said! Don't you think, Marshal? Mother?”

Eleanor gave her son a withering look. “Richard commanded loyalty not by threats but by example. It would take only a miracle for you to follow it—if you could live as a warrior saint like your brother.”

John was out of his throne and down the steps of the dais almost before the last word had crossed her lips. Godfrey was certain that the king meant to strike his mother. Isabella gave a little gasp. Marshal took a quick step forward. One of Eleanor's ladies stifled a warning cry. Only Eleanor herself didn't move. She glared imperiously at her son, as he halted in front of her, breathing hard.

“Your sainted son was an imbecile,” he said. “And you supported him in every folly from here to Jerusalem and back. You worshiped him while the warrior lost territories hard won by his father. You kissed his picture while England had to pay four years' revenue to ransom him when he was captured.” John's
gestures became more animated by the moment, and his voice grew louder with every word. “You are as much to blame as anyone for the wreckage which is my inheritance. You're in grief for a fantasy, Mother, and you're too wise not to know it.”

Eleanor struck him across the cheek so hard that the sound of the blow echoed through the chamber and a spot of blood appeared on John's face. No one spoke. No one so much as took a breath. Isabella gaped at them both, her eyes flicking back and forth between mother and son. At last, John dabbed at the blood with the cuff of his sleeve. His movement seemed to break a spell. Eleanor turned away and walked briskly from the room. John watched her leave, a smile on lips.

“I broke her skin more than she did mine,” he said, looking from Godfrey to Marshal. He stepped back onto the dais and lowered himself into his throne. “Now, Marshal,” he said, his voice crisp, “you served my brother faithfully, and my father before him. I think you've spent enough time with my family, and no doubt would like to spend more with your own. Therefore, and with regret, I accept your resignation from all your offices and the cares of the state. Farewell.”

Godfrey nearly laughed aloud at what he saw on Marshal's face. The man looked like he had been slapped, too, his eyes round, his cheeks ashen. To his credit, though, the old knight managed to keep his dignity. The king held out a hand. Marshal stared at it for a moment before pulling his signet ring from his finger and dropping it into the king's palm. He bowed deeply to the king and said, “Your Majesty,” in a level voice that betrayed none of the emotion written so clearly on his face. Then he turned, and
left the chamber, much as Eleanor had done moments before.

John turned to Godfrey. “How many men do you need?”

Godfrey schooled his features and faced his liege.

B
Y THE TIME
he finally left the throne room, Godfrey had gotten from the king nearly everything he wanted. He had John's trust, he had been promised all the men he needed, and he had every confidence that the king would take to heart whatever counsel he offered. William Marshal had managed to discredit himself, and John's mother had completely alienated her son, leaving Godfrey as the king's sole adviser. Not a bad afternoon's work.

He walked down the corridor of the White Tower, feeling rather pleased with himself and confident that he had already completed the most difficult part of his plan. Even as he formed the thought, though, a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead of him and planted itself in the middle of the hallway. Godfrey slowed.

He recognized the man standing before him as Marshal, but he couldn't figure out what the old knight had in mind. He stood still, doing nothing, saying nothing, his back to Godfrey.

But as Godfrey resumed his pace, Marshal suddenly thrust his arms out to the sides, his fists clenched, his back fully exposed to Godfrey.

“Choose carefully, Godfrey, the spot where you would place your dagger.”

Godfrey smirked. Such drama in a single gesture. The old man had much to learn about subtlety. Still, Godfrey couldn't deny that his blade hand itched
just a bit. His work would be that much easier with Marshal dead rather than just cast aside. The old knight still had Eleanor's trust, and only a fool would have underestimated either the knight or the queen consort, much less the pair of them.

But he would not tip his hand by being impatient. This was neither the time nor the place for Marshal's murder. Godfrey stared at the man's back, imagining what it would feel like to pierce its center with the blade he carried, but he stepped past the man without slowing, or even glancing at his face.

Marshal called after him, “For I will choose carefully as well.”

Godfrey didn't look back. He didn't break stride. But he did thrust out his arms in turn, showing the knight the full of his back, and making certain that Marshal could see the signet ring that now adorned his hand.
Take your best shot, old man,
he thought. /
fear neither you nor your blade.

He returned to the quarters in which he had been staying and packed what few belongings he carried with him. Then he made his way down to the Tower kitchen and got himself a small bite to eat. By the time he finished and returned to the bailey, his tax collection force was already gathered. Fifty men, armed, mounted, and clothed in the uniforms of the king's guard, all waiting for his command. They didn't appear to be England's finest soldiers, but they would suit his purposes, as would the iron-plated wagon that would carry whatever revenue they collected. John might have been a naif and fool, but he was efficient. Or perhaps the efficiency of the Tower was an artifact from Richard's rule. That struck Godfrey as more likely.