Stephen Lawhead - Scarlet

"Where is he?" demanded the king. "I have ridden hard for three days in the rain. I am not playing at games."

"This is what I wanted to tell you, Majesty," explained the archbishop. "Duke Robert is not here. Indeed, few of those summoned to attend have arrived. It's the weather, you see… but we expect them at any moment."

"Do we!" snapped the angry king. "Do we indeed, sir!"

"We do, Majesty," the old cleric assured him. "I have ordered chambers to be prepared for you. If you would like to rest a little before the proceedings, I will have refreshment sent to you."

William gave a last scowl around the near-empty room and allowed himself to be persuaded. "Very well," he said. "Have wine brought to me in my chambers." To one of his men, he said, "Leicester, fetch me dry clothes. I'll change out of these blasted wet things."

"Of course, Sire. At once," replied the Earl of Leicester. With a nod and flick of his hand, he sent one of his men to carry out the errand. "Will there be anything else?"

"No," said the king, feeling a great weariness settling upon him. He started after the archbishop, saying, "You and Warwick will attend me. The others are to see to the horses, then take food and rest for themselves."

"At once, Sire." The earl gave quick instructions to the rest of the king's guard and sent them away. He and the Earl of Warwick accompanied the king to the apartment that had been prepared for him-a large room with a bed and a square oak table with four chairs. Archbishop Bonne-Ame pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the room, glancing around to assure himself that all was in order for his tetchy guest.

A fire burned in the small hearth, and on the table sat a jug of wine with four cups and, beside these, a platter with loaves of bread and soft cheese wrapped in grape leaves.

William walked to the table and poured wine into three of the cups. "Thank you, Archbishop," he said, offering a cup to the nearest earl, "we are well satisfied with our arrangements. You may go."

Bonne-Ame bowed his old white head and retreated, closing the door. "I leave you to your rest."

"My brother is planning mischief," observed the king, his nose in his cup as he gulped down a healthy draught. "I can feel it in my bones."

"Do you know le Bellay?" asked the Earl of Leicester.

"I know my brother," replied William.

"If there is to be bloodshed…," began young Lord Warwick.

The king cut him off with an impatient wave of his hand. "It won't come to that, I think," William said, handing him a cup. "At least not yet." He drank again and said, "I wish I knew what he and his sycophants were up to, though."

"Those men down there," said Leicester. "Who were they?"

"God knows," answered the king. "Never seen the rascals before. You?"

"I might have met one or another. Difficult to say." He replaced his cup on the board and said, "I think I might just go and see if I can find out."

"Never mind," said the king. Drawing out a chair, he dropped heavily into it, then shoved a second chair towards the earl. "Here. Sit. You must be as tired as I am. Sit. We'll drink and rest."

"With respect, Sire, I would rest easier if I knew who those men are and what they're doing here."

The king shrugged. "Go then, but hurry back. And tell the chamberlain we need some meat to go with this bread and cheese."

"Of course, my lord," said the Earl of Leicester, moving quickly towards the door. He hoped to catch the archbishop for a private word before the old man disappeared into the cavern of his palace.

"And more wine!" called the king after him.

William leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Sire?" said the Earl of Warwick, setting aside his cup. He came to stand before the king. "If you would allow me," he offered, indicating the monarch's feet, "I think we might dry those boots a little."

William nodded, and with a sigh raised his foot so that the young man might pull off the sodden shoe. He guzzled down another draught as the young nobleman attended to the other boot.

"There, now," said Warwick, when he had finished. "Better, no?"

"Mmmm," murmured William into the cup. "Much."

The earl carried the wet boots to the hearth and put them on the warm stones to dry, then returned to the table and sat down. He and the king sipped their wine in silence for a time, feeling the tensions of the road begin to ease beneath application of the sweet, dark liquid.

"This is all my father's fault," mused William after a time. "If he had not promised my ninny of a brother the throne of England, all would be well. He roused Robert's hopes and, fool that he is, the duke has set the value too high-thinks it worth more than it is." He drained the cup and then filled it again. "Truth is," he continued, "the blasted island costs more than you can ever get out of it."

"It was ever thus," Warwick suggested. "King Harold never had two pennies to rub together one day to the next, as my father used to say. And Aelfred was in debt from the day he took the crown till the day they took it off him in the grave."

"This is supposed to cheer me, Warwick?" grumbled the king.

"I merely suggest that your condition is neither more nor less than that which all English rulers have endured. God knows, it is difficult enough even for an earl, much less a duke or a king."

"Duke Robert does right well," William pointed out. He took up a loaf of bread, broke it, and stuffed half into his mouth. He chewed heavily for a moment. "To be sure, most of what he has he got from me."

"Cut him off, Sire," suggested Warwick. "Or make him sign a settlement treaty in exchange for his promise never to raise rebellion again. Get him to put his name to it."

"Robert would have nothing if it wasn't for me propping him up," growled William, the bread half-eaten in his mouth. "No more! No more, hear? This is the end."

"With your permission, Sire, I'll have a treaty drawn up at once," the earl suggested, raising his cup. "We'll get Robert to sign it and be done with him once and for all."

"If he thinks I'll buy him off again, he's woefully mistaken," said William. "If he demands another penny from me, I'll march on him, curse the devil, I will! I swear it."

"Well," replied Warwick judiciously, trying to calm the agitated monarch, "perhaps he will listen to reason this time. Would you like me to arrange for a treaty?"

Lord Leicester returned with another jug of wine and, behind him, a servant bearing a platter of cold roast duck and chicken. "His Grace the archbishop says that he is retiring for the night. He wishes you a good night's rest and sleep. He will conduct a Mass in the morning and break fast after."

"And my brother? When is he expected?"

"The archbishop could not say, Sire. Tomorrow, I expect."

"Well, then," decided William, "we could do worse than make a night of it. Here, bring that platter! I'm famished."

They ate and drank, talking long into the night. Both Lord Leicester and his brother, Warwick, remained with the king, sleeping in chairs beside the hearth while William snored in his feather bed. As dawn cracked the damp grey sky in the east, the chapel bell sounded, calling the faithful to Mass. William and his noblemen stirred at the sound, then went back to sleep, awaking again when they heard a clatter in the courtyard below. Warwick got up and walked to the narrow window, pushed open the wooden shutter and looked out. He could see seven men on horseback, or perhaps five men and two women. On closer inspection, at least two of them appeared to be priests. Although the day was still new, their mounts appeared fresh and fairly unsoiled by the mud on the rain-soaked roads. They had not travelled far, the earl surmised. He watched for a moment, scanning the group, but failed to recognise anyone-in any event, they were certainly not Duke Robert and his entourage. Turning from the window, he went to the king's bed and gave a polite cough. When this failed to rouse His Majesty, he took hold of the royal shoulder and gave it a shake.