The Heart of the Lion - Plaidy Jean (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗

‘I have heard that many murmur against him.’

‘The son of a French serf who ran away and hid himself in a Norman village. Longchamp was the name of that village and they took that as their name. Doubtless they thought it had a noble ring. The man is a low-born knave.’

‘He is very powerful,’ said Hadwisa.

‘Powerful! At this time maybe. It is not going to last though.’

‘Is it not?’

‘Indeed it is not, for I say so and you know don’t you, wife, that when I command all obey me.’

She was silent and he shouted: ‘Know you it, wife?’

‘Yes . . . yes . . .’ she answered.

‘Then when I speak to you, pray do not remain silent. If you do I shall be angry and you would not like that, you know.’

‘No, John.’

‘Remember it. I tell you this: it will not be long before Longchamp is sent back to Normandy. You believe that, don’t you?’

‘If you say so, John.’

‘Yes, I say so! I hate the fellow. Low-born upstart! Do you know I think he would take the crown if it were at all possible.’

‘But that could never be,’ she said.

‘Nay. Though ’tis true it now rests with one who does not deserve it.’

‘You speak of the King.’

‘Who is at this moment in Palestine fighting the Saracen. Or is he there, do you think? Mayhap his ship foundered. Ships do that often. Mayhap he is at this moment lying dead with an arrow in his body. By God’s holy eyes, if that be so then your husband, Hadwisa, is King of England. Would it were so. Oh God, I pray you send that arrow quick . . . let it pierce his heart. He must lose that for which he shows little love for if he loved England how could he have deserted her to be a soldier of the cross?’ Hadwisa trembled. He looked down at the bed and pushed her over on to her face. ‘There! I would not see your traitorous eyes, my lady. You have no spirit. You are frightened of God, of Richard! Fool that you are. There is one whom you should fear. The new King, your husband.’

She said: ‘I do.’

‘Then you have some sense. I tell you this, wife; that I am going to take this kingdom. Whether God sends that arrow or not. Richard is not here. Then he shall lose his kingdom. The people are restive. They will be with me.’

She raised herself and looked steadily at him. ‘What of your mother?’ she asked.

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I am her son am I not?’

‘She loves Richard.’

‘Aye, and she loves me too. She is a wise woman, a woman of great experience. She will see that this must be. He deserts his kingdom. There must be a king.’

He looked at her without seeing her. He could see nothing but the crown on his own head. That vision was more exciting than anything he could conjure up. He was bored with her. He could not discuss his dreams with her. What was she? An ignorant little country girl! He would never have known her if she had not been the richest heiress in the land.

To her great relief he left her. She dressed hurriedly and said a prayer of thankfulness, adding a request that soon he would go away.

She began to think of what effect it would have on her life if he truly became King. She then would be the Queen.

It was not so much the thought of being Queen that terrified her but of being his Queen.

Down in the hall the venison was being served . . . a very special occasion for the coming of the King’s brother. John sat at the table, his wife beside him, but he had little to say to her. His thoughts were far away from this hall. He was seeing himself being crowned in Westminster. It was all he could do to restrain himself from talking of this matter but he was not so foolish as to do so in such varied company.

He glanced at Hubert de Burgh, a young man to whom he had taken a great fancy, and he wished they were alone together so that he could have talked to him.

It was while they were at dinner that messengers arrived for John. He had his spies everywhere and it was one of their duties to bring news to him wherever he might be.

So thus while they sat at dinner and the minstrels strummed their lutes and sang, there was a clatter of horses’ hoofs in the courtyard which proved to be the arrival of one of John’s messengers.

Hoping that he brought news of Richard’s death he went out into the courtyard to meet the messenger. The man was mud-stained for he had travelled fast and far knowing his master would wish the news to be brought to him without delay.

‘Come, man, what is it?’

‘I have news of the King, my lord,’ he said. ‘He has left Sicily. He has made a pact with the usurper King Tancred.’

‘So he still lives,’ said John, his brow darkening.

‘Aye, my lord,’ said the messenger, ‘and there is ill news.’

‘Ill news!’ he cried. ‘What news?’

The messenger looked alarmed. It was not good to be the harbinger of news which did not please and he knew what he had to tell Prince John would send him into a passion. But he must tell it. It would be more than his life was worth to withhold anything.

He blurted out: ‘The King has promised Prince Arthur of Brittany to Tancred’s daughter. It is one of the terms of the pact.’

‘Arthur!’ screamed John.

‘’Tis so, my lord.’

‘By God’s teeth,’ muttered John. ‘He has offered Arthur as the heir of England!’

‘’Twould seem so, my lord, for Tancred has accepted the offer most joyfully.’

John’s face was distorted with rage.

‘By your leave, my lord,’ said the messenger bowing and hastily taking a few steps backwards.

But John did not see him. He was thinking of what this would mean. Their nephew, Arthur, son of their brother Geoffrey, had been named by Richard as heir to the throne of England!

‘No, no, no,’ screamed John.

Then he smiled slowly. Of course Arthur would never be King. He was a baby. He had never been to England. The English would never accept him.

But, by God, how he hated his brother for attempting to cheat him!

Could some say that Arthur had the greater claim? Geoffrey was older than he, John. Geoffrey’s son! No, it was nonsense. It could never be. He would see that it never was.

By God, he would take the throne now while Richard lived if need be. What had he to fear from a puling infant?

He was in no mood for Hadwisa. He had matters of greater moment to consider than her discomfort.

‘We are leaving,’ he shouted. ‘There are matters of business to claim me. I can no longer rest here.’

Hadwisa stood at the turret watching his departure.

She blessed the messenger who had brought such a message to drive her from her husband’s thoughts.

William of Longchamp was too clever a man not to have realised that his most dangerous enemy was Prince John, and that sooner or later the Prince’s simmering hatred would boil over into dangerous action.

Longchamp believed that he could deal satisfactorily with the Prince, who for all his blustering and violent temper was a weak man. Had he not been the son of a King he would never have risen very far. Whereas he, Longchamp, had done so, although severely handicapped, his grandparents both being fugitive slaves who had come from France to the little village of Longchamp and lived out their lives in obscurity, their great ambition being never to be discovered.

He had been determined not to remain in obscurity. Nature had seen fit to bestow on him an unattractive body but a clever brain and all wise men knew that the second was more desirable than the first. When he had been younger he had longed to be tall but he soon realised that he never would be. In fact unkind people called him ‘that ill-favoured dwarf’. That was not true but he was of very low stature so that his head seemed bigger than normal, as were his hands and his feet. It was as though nature had joked with him, giving him a chin that receded and a stomach that protruded; and as if that were not enough one leg was slightly shorter than the other which meant that he walked with a limp. But to compensate him for his physical disabilities he had been given not only a lively mind but the understanding that it could take him far if he nurtured it; so he learned where he could, observing constantly and making himself agreeable to those who could be useful to him.