Roselynde, page 28
“Oh, Simon, that is like to be dangerous to you.”
“What of that? I do not fear the king’s spite. If he is angered, Richard will say it to my face. He is not forgiving, but he is not one to keep anger hidden either. A bold front is more like to please the king than whining complaints.”
“I did not mean the king. He is just enough and knows you would not cheat him.”
“Longchamp then? What is there to fear in him?”
Alinor drew a quick, exasperated breath. “Because he is little and crooked and cannot wield a sword or mace, you think he is nothing. He is the more deadly for his weakness. There are ambushes that can be laid upon the road, and there are knives in dark corners.”
“Tush! I have lived with that all of my life. I was not so dearly beloved by the powers I went to overthrow as king’s justiciar. More than one tried to rid himself of me in those ways. Yet I am here.”
That was little comfort to Alinor. There was always a first time for success, and in assassination it was the last time for the victim. She knew it was useless to argue with Simon about that, and she was reminded of the queen’s constant reiteration of taking the bitter with the better. If you chose a brave man, you could not expect him to be overcautious. It was useless to worry either. Simon was no fool. She had laid a hand on his arm before and, under the velvet sleeve, felt the fine mesh of a mail shirt.
“There are also letters full of lies,” Alinor pointed out.
“Do you think they would be fewer or more loving no matter what I did?” Simon asked cynically.
“Not unless you yielded all, and licked his spittle too. I did but wish to remind you that worms are often venomous.”
“That is true, although I have no need of reminders. Now I must remind you of something. You must hold your tongue. If all goes well, your lands will be well shielded from Longchamp in that you and I and Sir Andre will have the king’s word from his own mouth before many witnesses. Longchamp may still try to encroach, but Sir Andre can wage war if he must with a clear heart and mind. Since he is armed and stocked for war, owing to your over-ardent suitors, I do not think Longchamp will attempt him seriously.
“Why should I hold my tongue? Do you think it would be wrong to thank Lord Richard for his kindness?”
“You may say what you will if we gain our point. If we do not, then you must hold your tongue. No, Alinor, listen!” Simon said urgently as he saw the mulish jut of her little round chin. “If we both drown together, as we nearly did once because of your stubbornness, all will be lost.”
“But we did not drown. And had I not been stubborn, you would certainly have drowned alone.”
“I do not think it, but that is neither here nor there in this case. If you are modestly silent now, you will be free to obtain the queen’s help and to support Sir Andre with advice, and perhaps to help me. Do not look so black. I do not believe the king will dare deny me. Too many of the men assembled have royal grants of one kind or another and many of them are going with the king on Crusade. They will need to appoint deputies. If my deputy is to be displaced, what surety do they have that theirs will not also be displaced? There may be some harsh words said, which is another reason I warn you to be silent, but in the end Richard must confirm my choice of deputy.”
Alinor stared at Simon with wide, desolate eyes, but there was nothing beyond a grim satisfaction in his face. The king would yield. He was quick of temper and stubborn as a galled ass, but by no means a fool. Simon had planned his campaign well. Yet there was one thing he had not considered. Whatever Simon said, Richard would not relish being forced to reprimand his favorite. Even if Longchamp twisted out of the blame, Richard would resent such a subject being raised in open Court, and it was said the king had a long memory for slights. He would never agree that Simon should obtain by marriage the lands and the lady that had been the bone of contention.
“Do not fear for me,” Simon said softly, misreading Alinor’s expression. He took her hand into his. “If I survived the father who was by far the cleverer, I will not be trapped by the son. He is bewitched by this dream of Crusade, but he is not an evil man.”
With that cold comfort Alinor had to be content for, twist and turn the matter in her mind as she would, she could see no other way to protect her lands surely. Other less dangerous paths might be taken, but they would also produce less secure results. Simon believed they would return to England when the queen’s tour of her own lands was complete, but Alinor was not convinced of that. Because of what she had heard pass between Richard and his mother, she felt the queen would not leave the negotiations for Berengaria’s hand to her son. It would be far too easy for him to be “too busy” to press for an early marriage.
The queen, Alinor thought, would linger until she saw Richard and Berengaria together, possibly until they were married. Doubtless she would like it even better if she could remain with her son until Berengaria was delivered of a male heir. Probably Richard would not endure that and, in any case, it would be necessary to get the French king started for the Holy Land before the wedding took place to prevent him from demanding the return of his sister and her dowry. Alinor was by no means confident that they would see England again before the year that was barely started was well past. To protect her lands over such a long period of time, strong surety was needful. Simon’s way was best.
The women’s quarters were strangely silent that forenoon. The maids scurried about their tasks as quickly and quietly as possible, more than one with tear streaks or red welts on their faces. The ladies were frightened and nervous, having picked up the queen’s tension. They expressed their uneasiness by misusing their servants. Alinor was not above such behavior, but this day she could not find relief in such a simple way. She glanced uneasily toward the window, but the hides obscured the position of the sun and she could not be sure of the time. Then, with a sigh of impatience, she went and craved admittance to the queen. It was not refused, but the glance turned upon her was not encouraging. This, Alinor thought, was no time for circumlocution.
“Madam,” she began, clasping and unclasping her hands nervously, “you know of the letter from Sir Andre—”
“I can do no more than I have done,” the queen snapped. “The matter rests with the king.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Alinor agreed, “so Sir Simon told me, but I thought you should know that he intends in take it to the king today.”
The queen sat quite still, her eyes unfocused. Alinor watched her face fearfully, but no such pallor of rage as had disfigured her the previous day appeared. Then, suddenly, she looked intently at Alinor. “You mean that Simon will accuse Longchamp of this in open Court?”
Alinor swallowed. “That was his intention.”
Again the queen fell silent. Her tongue moved slowly across her upper lip, which was chapped raw by the bitter weather they had traveled through. She nodded twice slowly. “It was well thought of, although I would not have urged such a dangerous ploy.”
“I did not urge it. I did not even think of it,” Alinor protested, but the queen did not seem to hear.
“To my sorrow, I doubt that it will do Longchamp any harm,” she said. Then a note of satisfaction came into her voice. “But it will do Richard much good.” She brought her eyes back to Alinor’s face. “I will do what I can for Simon.” Slowly a smile grew on her lips until at last she laughed softly. “You will not like what I do, but I assure you, child, it is the best thing for me, for my Richard, and for Simon too. Yes, even for you. Patience is a hard lesson for the young, but those who learn it soonest are saved much grief. You were very wise to bring me this news. You may leave me now, but rest assured of my good will.”
A few hours later, when the full Court assembled in Great Hall, Simon stepped forward as soon as the king had settled into his seat.
“My lord,” he said, his bass rumble drawing all eyes and ears, “I have a small matter I would bring to your attention before we come to the serious business of day. Have I leave to speak?”
“If it will not take long, speak,” Richard agreed.
“The queen, as you know, made me warden of the lands of Lady Alinor Devaux in recognition of my long loyalty and good service. You, my lord, were graciously pleased to confirm her appointment. Then, after you sent me to Wales, you were so kind as to name me Sheriff of Sussex to reward my labors which, God be thanked, were crowned with success.”
Richard nodded easily in confirmation of Simon’s statement. It was most tactfully put. There was a faint cynical murmur from the English barons who knew that Simon had come by his appointment, as all of them had come to theirs, by purchase. No one in England had been “given” anything, except Lord John. The king raised his eyes from Simon’s face to look around the hall and the murmur died.
“In your father’s day, my duties lay in the north and west so that I knew few men in the south. Yet it is my belief that each land is governed best by those who know it best.”
“Vérité! Vérité!” burst from the throats of the English lords.
The men of Normandy, Anjou, and the southern provinces looked a little surprised. Richard scowled blackly.
“You said this was a little matter, Sir Simon. We are not here to discuss the theory of governance.”
“Nor was it my intent to do so, my lord,” Simon said smoothly, his eyes not wavering. “I did but wish to explain why I chose the deputy I set in my place. He is a man of ripe years, of the highest integrity, long accustomed to administration, and completely familiar with the problems of a shire that exposes hundreds of leagues of seacoast to invasion from France.”
“Yes, yes, I am sure you would choose a man suitable in every way,” Richard said impatiently and unwisely.
“I am glad to hear you say so, my lord,” Simon’s voice turned a little grim “because your Chancellor and Justiciar, the Bishop of Ely, does not agree with you. He has sent my deputy notice that he will displace him with a new warden for the lands of Lady Alinor and a new Sheriff of Sussex.”
A deathly silence fell upon the Hall. Even the barons of the continental lands, who had been silent out of politeness or had been conversing together very softly because they felt this was an English matter of no particular interest to them, were startled into breathless attention. Richard looked out upon a sea of faces turned to stone, upon bodies stiffly tense. Every pair of eyes was wary, incipient rage leashed in by expectation—every pair of eyes but two. Longchamp glared at Simon, and in his brother John’s eyes Richard saw an ugly hope.
It was that, far more than his mother’s careful, logical exhortation, that saved Simon at that moment. John hoped that Richard would side with Longchamp. He could then portray himself as the supporter of right custom, and every disaffected malcontent would flock to him to raise rebellion against the absent king. Not in England, Richard thought contemptuously, mistaking the more stolid manners of the northern magnates for cowardice, but his own hot-tempered Poitevins were measuring his action too. And William Longchamp was little better loved in Poitiers than in England.
That thought made Richard cast an angry glance at Simon, although it was directed more at his type than at him as an individual. They hated Longchamp for what he was rather than for what he did, the king told himself resentfully. Or, perhaps, they hated him because his only loyalty lay with Richard. Longchamp mouthed no platitudes about the well-being of the realm. He did his master’s bidding and had no extraneous loyalties, like Simon’s to “honesty” in treatment of that girl ward of his. Longchamp would have squeezed much more from Sussex and the Devaux estates. Nonetheless, Richard knew Simon would not cheat him of his due and that nearly every man there knew it also. He could not sacrifice Simon for the sake of a few marks and Longchamp’s pride because it would lay too much temptation in John’s path.
“Is this true?” the king asked Longchamp.
“That I wish to deprive Sir Simon of his office or his ward is a lie,” William Longchamp snarled.
Simon turned slowly and took three steps forward. Even though they were well apart and Longchamp stood on the first step of the dais, Simon towered over him. “Do you call me a liar?” he asked softly.
“I call your correspondent a liar—or a fool. My lord,” Longchamp turned toward the king. “I am your deputy as Chancellor and Justiciar of England, and I say the man chosen by Sir Simon is totally unfit for this duty. He is uncle to Lady Alinor Devaux, the chief of her vassals, and too close in love to the gentry of Sussex to judge fairly what is owing from them to Your Grace.”
“Well, Sir Simon,” Richard asked almost smiling. He should have known William would not fail him. “Is what the Bishop of Ely says true?”
Longchamp was clever, but he and Richard both underestimated Simon, assuming that his big body and quick reflexes were all there was to him. Longchamp expected a roar of rage and angry sputtering denials that he could demolish. Instead Simon grinned cheerfully at the king. Richard suffered a sudden reversal of feeling. He remembered that cheerful grin very well.
“One word in three is God’s truth. Sir Andre is indeed chief of Lady Alinor’s vassals, which was a strong reason to name him deputy, as he can summon Lady Alinor’s men to defend the coast without the long delays necessary when a sheriff calls a levy. Did I judge wrong in this, my lord?”
Richard was a consummate soldier and tactician; he could not help grinning back. Clever in politics, finance, and legal trickery, Longchamp was an idiot in war—which was why William Marshal had been left in England.
“He has you, William,” the king said. There was laughter from the assembled nobles. The tension eased appreciably as the men realized the king was not going to support his favorite blindly, ignoring justice. Responding to the atmosphere of approval, Richard’s resentment abated. “Well, Sir Simon,” he encouraged more genially.
“Sir Andre was the husband of Lady Alinor’s grandfather’s natural daughter. He says himself that it is no claimworthy blood bond, but you may judge that for yourself, my lord. Further, he has been in Sussex only some three or four years. He has no blood kin there, and the last of those years he was at war with almost every house in the shire. I freely admit it was no private matter that brought him to blows with them—they were somewhat overeager suitors for his lady’s hand in marriage—but I doubt that any deep love ties have been formed among them.”
That brought another laugh. Richard was not so well pleased to see his chancellor held up to ridicule, but he was trapped in the facts.
“Perhaps you have not investigated this matter closely enough, William,” the king suggested. It was an easy way out.
“Please, my lord,” Simon put in before Longchamp could answer, “that is not the point. Simply, it is this. You appointed me. Have I given you any cause to lose faith in me?”
“Of course not,” Richard replied quickly. He was frowning but he could give no other answer. No man would believe that Sir Simon had failed in a trust.
“Then, my lord, it does not matter if I chose an ape to be my deputy. Even if every word the Bishop of Ely said was true, he had no right to interfere with my choice. It is my responsibility and my ruination if I chose ill. It is my duty to deliver what is due to you when it is due. If I do not, you may take my lands away and my head also. If you believe I cannot perform my duty, you have the right to deprive me of offices and even of life. I do not contest your right to that, but otherwise it is my right to appoint what deputy I will to carry out my orders.”
“These are high words, Sir Simon,” the king said harshly.
“I am sorry if I offend you, Your Grace,” Simon replied steadily, “but I must be sure that what you have given me will not be snatched away upon some pretext, or even no pretext. More than that, I have my honor. I must know that what I have promised will be performed in the way I have planned. If I cannot be sure of this, then I will go back and take up my duties again instead of taking the Cross as I had planned.”
The king’s expression, which had been growing angrier and angrier, changed to pleased surprise. His monomania had been brought into action.
Longchamp uttered a single strangled oath and said, “And who has thus moved your spirit? I have heard you call those who wished to save God’s city idiots.”
“I have little interest in God’s city,” Simon replied truthfully, “and still less in those degenerates who rule it and could not keep it safe. But I have a deep interest in my king. If Lord Richard goes to the Holy Land, I believe it to be my duty to follow him—provided I am clear of oaths previously sworn.”
“What oaths?” Richard asked petulantly. The dose of flattery Simon had administered was very palatable. It was much to Richard’s liking to be told that loyalty to his person was a driving force more powerful than the preaching of prelates. The final remark that Simon’s oath was more powerful an influence still was a disappointment.
“I have always been the queen’s man,” Simon said. “I swore my faith to her long years before you were born, my lord, and I have never broken that faith. I needed your mother’s yea-say before I could ask to accompany you. Before giving her permission, the queen made two conditions. One, that I should accompany you as your shield bearer.”
The king’s blue eyes opened wide. His mouth opened too, but indignation choked his voice. When Richard had been a very young, very bold, and very inexperienced fighter, an older, stronger man, more sensible and cautious was necessary to save him from inadvertent suicide. Simon had ridden with Richard, nominally to “bear his shield” and actually to protect him. Richard was many years past needing such protection or advice now. Simon met his affronted eyes and his rich laugh rang out.
“I said you would slay me outright for such a presumption, my lord, but the queen insisted I use those words. She said she was still your mother, that she did not fear the enemies you would face but the allies following behind.”
Simon had chosen his words carefully. He had not said the men or the vassals following. That would have been an open and bitter insult to the nobles foregathered in the Hall, and would have been false. Richard’s own people loved him well. He had said “allies.” There were grunts and mutters of approval. It was the open belief of all of Richard’s subjects that Philip of France, who said the sweetest words and gave the kiss of peace most tenderly, loved the English king so well that there was nothing he would not do to help Richard from this vale of tears into another happier afterlife.
