Jack Whyte - Standard of Honour

“Imagine what an upheaval that caused—the threat of a new war among ourselves in Christendom when the major threat to the papacy lies in Outremer! There was panic in the Vatican, and a flurry of papal ambassadors appealing to all of us individually. Philip allowed himself to be persuaded back into the fold and has restated his commitment to the Holy War. With him, to the prosecution of it and hence to our advantage, he will bring the most powerful vassals in his kingdom: Philip the Count of Flanders and Henry of Champagne. For his sins, poor Henry is nephew to both Philip and myself—did you know that? My mother is his grandmother by her first marriage in France. And, for a certainty, Count Stephen of Sancerre will be there. But I will hold command. The new Pope Clement is sworn to that, albeit I am not yet King and Philip has been crowned for ten years now. He is an organizer, our Philip, an administrator without equal, but it is I who am the warrior. If my father lives long enough to see the army raised, he will make noises about wanting to lead it, but that will be a nonsense, as I have said, presented for the show of it.

“Anyway, once the army is ready, we will set sail immediately for Palestine, and by the time we come home victorious, England will be mine beyond dispute, with the support and blessings of the Pope and all his court.”

Richard stood up and braced an arm against the mantel, staring into the coals. St. Clair remained seated, frowning, his eyes following Richard and then shifting to where de Sablé sat watching, his face an inscrutable mask. Now he cleared his throat and spoke out.

“A hundred thousand men, you said, my lord. Forgive me for asking, but…who will pay for that?” He hurried on before Richard could react. “I mean, I know you said your father was the one who made the commitment to the venture, at Gisors, and that is as it should be, but will he carry through with it now, since the events of August, knowing you will prosper thereby?”

“Aye, he will.” Unfazed by the question, Richard spoke over his shoulder, not quite looking at St. Clair but speaking to him nonetheless. “He will, because he knows nothing and will learn nothing about my agreement with Clement. And before you ask me how I can be sure of that, the answer is that Clement needs my goodwill today far more than he will ever need my father’s. And to make doubly sure of that, I have made it clear to the Pope that I will have my own spies watching closely. Should I ever hear the smallest whisper of suspicion that the Holy Father might have been in contact with my profane father, I will resign from the army, quit the Holy Land immediately with all my men, and leave him to work out his own destiny, and that of Holy Mother Church, with Barbarossa and his Germans.”

He thrust himself back from the fire and dragged his chair back to the table, where he leaned against the back of it, his forearms folded across its top. “As for the funding of the venture, I have told you the Church is willing to contribute gold under the terms of my recent agreement with Clement. And there are other sources of supply. That, too, was taken care of at Gisors. We initiated a new tax at that time, both in France and in our Plantagenet territories in England and elsewhere. It is called the Saladin Tax—a good name, don’t you think?” He plainly thought so; St. Clair could see that from the way the Duke almost smiled as he mentioned it. “I thought of it and named it. It will be most useful when I apply it fully in England. Each man in the realm, priests not excluded, will pay a three-year levy of one-tenth of all his income. Some people think it is too onerous, I am told, but that does not concern me. England is the richest jewel in the Plantagenet crown. It can well afford the price I demand of it in such a noble cause. And besides, I would sell London itself to raise this army, could I but find a buyer with sufficient wealth.” He thrust his lower lip out in a pout. “And a noble cause it is, Henry, apart from all the politics involved.”

Having delivered that opinion, the Duke appeared to have reminded himself of his official persona, and he stepped gravely from behind his chair and seated himself before continuing. “This upstart infidel in Palestine, this Sultan dog who calls himself Saladin, has raised his foul head far enough above the sand to beg to be stamped on. He has taken Jerusalem and Acre back from us, although he will not keep them long, and his treachery has resulted in the defeat of the Christian armies in the Holy Land and the death of hundreds of our finest knights, including those of the Temple and the Hospital. Not to mention the loss of the True Cross discovered by the blessed Empress Helena six hundred years ago. For all of those transgressions he deserves to be struck down, and it is all in hand. We will be in Outremer by this time next year, and you will be by my side.”

“I…see…” Henry had to fight hard to keep his voice and his face from betraying any vestige of the consternation and panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He counted slowly to ten before continuing in a very calm voice, “In what capacity, my liege?”

Richard frowned. He was clearly reaching the end of his limited patience. “Capacity? You’ll be my Master-at-Arms, of course. What other capacity would you expect?”

“Master-at-Arms?” The unexpected declaration left St. Clair floundering.

“Why not? You think yourself unfit?”

“No,” Henry responded, stung by the tone in which the question had been uttered. “Not unfit, but perhaps no longer fitted , if you take my meaning. I am old now, my liege, too long removed from the field. This time next year I will be fifty, and I have not swung a sword in years. In truth, since my wife died I have not even sat astride a horse. There must be younger men at your command, more suited to this task you would have me attempt.”

“Away with that old man nonsense! My father is fifty-nine and he was in the saddle, fighting me tooth and nail in Normandy, mere months ago. Besides, it’s not your muscles I require, Henry, it’s your brains, your skills and experience, your knowledge of men and warfare, and, above all else, your loyalty. I can trust you with absolute certainty, and there are few men about me of whom I can say that.”

“But—”

“No buts, man. Have you not heard a word I’ve said? The ruck of folk, both here and in my soon-to-be new kingdom, think I should take William Marshall of England to my heart. Yes, Marshall is the finest soldier of our time, bar me myself. But William Marshall is my father’s man. Has been all his life, body and soul. So he can never be mine. He has my father’s thinking and his prejudices. He dislikes me and distrusts me and he always has, seeing in me his master’s natural but begrudged heir and resenting me for it. I will not have him come that close to my designs, for I distrust him even more than he does me. Is that plain enough for you?”

“Yes, my liege, it is…yet I would beg the privilege to be allowed to think upon this for a time.”

“Think about it for as long as you wish, Henry, but think not to ignore my wishes. I will have it thus, and you’ll refuse me, as your true liege lord, at your peril.” Richard fell silent then, uncaring of St. Clair’s reaction to his words, and sat stiffly, his brow knitting as he glanced around him, half turning towards the door at his back.

“Where is your son, young André?” He turned back to face his host. “Still out tomcatting at this time of night? He had better be, or I’ll not take kindly to his slighting me.” He stopped, struck by the expression on Sir Henry’s face. “What’s wrong, Henry? Something’s amiss, I see it in your eyes. Where is the lad?”