Sharon Penman - Cruel As the Grave

TOWER OF LONDON

ENGLAND

April 1193

They were intimate enemies, bound by blood. Here in the torchlit splendor of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, they'd fought yet another of their battles. As always, there was no winner. They'd inflicted wounds that would be slow to heal, and that, too, was familiar. Nothing had changed, nothing had been resolved. But never had the stakes been so high. It shimmered in the shadows between them, the ultimate icon of power: England's royal crown.

Few knew better than Eleanor of Aquitaine how seductive that power could be. In her youth, she'd wed the French king, then left him for the man who would become King of England. That passionate, turbulent marriage of love and hate was part of her distant, eventful past; if Henry's unquiet ghost still stalked the realm of marital memory, she alone knew it. Now in her seventy-first year, she was England's revered Dowager Queen, rising above the ruins of her life like a castle impervious to assault. If her fabled beauty had faded, her wit had not, and her will was as finely honed as the sword of her most celebrated son, Richard Lionheart, the crusader king languishing in a German prison. But she was much more than Richard's mother, his invincible ally: She was his only hope.

The torches sputtered in their wall sconces, sending up wavering fingers of flame. The silence grew louder by the moment, thudding in her ears like an army's drumbeat. She watched as he paced, this youngest of her eaglets. John, Count of Mortain and Earl of Gloucester, would-be king. He seethed with barely suppressed fury, giving off almost as much heat as those erratic torches. His spurs struck white sparks against the tiled floor, and the swirl of his mantle gave her a glimpse of the sword at his hip. This might be her last chance to reach him, to avert calamity. What could she say that he would heed? What threat was likely to work? What promise?

"I will not allow you to steal Richard's crown," she said tautly. "Understand that if you understand nothing else, John. As long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose you in this. As will the justiciars."

"You think so?" he scoffed. "They held fast today, but who knows what may happen on the morrow? They might well decide that England would be better served by a living king than a dead one!"

"Richard is not dead."

"How can you be so sure of that, Madame? Have you secondsight? Or is this merely a doting mother's lapse into maudlin sentimentality?"

Beneath his savage sarcasm, she caught echoes of an emotion he would never acknowledge: a jealousy more bitter than gall. "Bring us back incontrovertible proof of Richard's death," she said, "and we will then consider your claim to the throne."

John's eyes showed sudden glints of green. "You mean you would weigh my claim against Arthur's, do you not?"

"Richard named his nephew as his heir. I did not," she said pointedly. "Must I remind you that you are my son, flesh of my flesh? Why would I not want the kingship for you?"

"That is a question I've often asked myself."

"If you'd have me say it, listen, then. I want you to be king. Not Arthur — you."

He could not hide a flicker of surprise. "You almost sound as if you mean that."

"I do, John," she said. "I swear by all the saints that I do."

For a moment, he hesitated, and she thought she'd gotten to him.

"But not whilst Brother Richard lives?"

"No," she said, very evenly, "not whilst Richard lives."

The silence that followed seemed endless to her. She'd always found it difficult to read his thoughts, could never see into his soul. He was a stranger in so many ways, this son so unlike Richard. His eyes locked upon hers, with a hawk's unblinking intensity. Whatever he'd been seeking, he did not find, though, for his mouth twisted into a sardonic, mirthless smile. "Alas," he said, "I've never been one for waiting."

~~

Justin de Quincy paused in the doorway of the queen's great hall. Never had he seen so many highborn lords at one time, barons of the realm and princes of the Church and all of the justiciars: Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen; William Marshal; Geoffrey Fitz Peter; William Brewer; and Hugh Bardolf. These were men of rank and privilege, milling about now like so many lost sheep, agitated and uneasy. What was amiss?

William Longsword was standing a few feet away and Justin headed in his direction. He felt an instinctive sense of kinship to the other man, for they were both outsiders. Will was a king's bastard, half-brother to Richard and John, raised at court but never quite belonging … like Justin himself. He hadn't been as lucky as Will, had grown up believing himself to be an orphan, the unwanted child of an unnamed wanton who'd died giving him birth. Only several months ago had he learned the truth. He was no foundling. The man who'd taken him in as a much-praised act of Christian charity was the man who'd sired him, Aubrey de Quincy, Bishop of Chester.

That stunning revelation had turned Justin's world upside down, and he was still struggling to come to terms with it. He had no right to the name de Quincy, had claimed it at the whimsical suggestion of the woman who'd become his unlikely patroness. That act of prideful defiance had given him no satisfaction, for it was like paying a debt with counterfeit coin. He had a new identity, a new life. He was still haunted, though, by the life he'd left behind, by the father who'd refused to acknowledge him.

"Justin!" Will had an easy smile, an affable manner, and none of his half-brothers' unsated hunger for lands, honours, and kingship. "When did you get back from Winchester? Come here, lad, there is someone I want you to meet."

William Marshal, Lord of Striguil and Pembroke, was a very wealthy man, holding vast estates in South Wales by right of his wife, a great heiress. A justiciar, sheriff of Gloucestershire, a baron who cherished hopes of being invested with an earldom, Marshal was one of the most influential men in the kingdom, and Justin greeted him somewhat shyly, for he was not yet accustomed to breathing the rarefied air of the royal court. Just a few brief months ago, he'd been a nobody, a bastard of unknown parentage serving as a squire with no hopes of advancement, and now he was …

"The queen's man," Will said heartily, clapping Justin playfully on the shoulder. "De Quincy is the lad I told you about, William, the one who brought Queen Eleanor the news that Richard was captured on his way home from the crusade."

It seemed strange to Justin to hear it spoken of so openly now, for the secret of that bloodstained letter had nearly cost him his life. He could only marvel at the random nature of fate, at the improbable series of events that had been set in motion by his decision to ride out of Winchester on a snowy Epiphany

morn. Because he'd stumbled onto the ambush of the queen's messenger, he'd found himself entangled in a conspiracy of kings, matching wits with the queen's son John and a murderous outlaw known as Gilbert the Fleming, sharing his bed with a seductive temptress who'd broken his heart with her betrayal, and winning a prize greater than the Holy Grail the queen's favor.

Will was praising him so lavishly now that Justin flushed, both pleased and discomfited to be hailed as a hero. For most of his twenty years, compliments had been rarer than dragon's teeth; he could remember nary a one ever coming out of his father's mouth. "My lords, may I ask what has occurred here? I've been to wakes that were more cheerful than this assemblage." He hesitated briefly then, but he'd earned the right to ask. "Has there been bad news about the king?"