Standard of Honour. Jack Whyte

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ then laid it down again untasted.

      “I was saddened to hear but recently that your father is still at odds with you over the succession. I had hoped that question might have been resolved long before now.”

      “Aye, as did we all. And it was, in truth, until the old boar changed his mind again. He is a stubborn old pig, for one who thinks of himself as a lion. I will have the better of him yet, though. God’s throat, I will. Wait you but a while and see with all the world. He’ll make me heir to England ere he dies, and he will not last long now, pray God.”

      Even although he knew there had been little love between the father and son, and he had heard reports of how the old King was visibly and rapidly declining, Henry St. Clair was nonetheless affronted to hear the son speak of his father’s impending death so callously. Before he could think of anything to say, however, Richard continued.

      “Still, the old boar did well for himself during his life, I’ll grant him that…and for me, as well, now that I think of it. Built me an empire, did he not? I’ve detested him all my life and even hated him at times, and yet I can weep for him, too, upon occasion. He may be a miserable tyrant but by God, he has been a man, and a king, to reckon with. I swear I know not how he and my mother lived together for so long without killing each other.”

      “Perhaps because he has kept her in jail for the past sixteen years.”

      Richard’s head jerked back and he looked at his old tutor in shock, and then his face broke into a grin and he loosed a great guffaw.

      “By God, you have the right of it. That probably had much to do with their mutual survival.”

      “How is your mother now?”

      “Wondrous well, from what my people in England tell me. But one of these fine days she will regain her freedom, and then she will probably become more dangerous and unpredictable than ever! Eleanor will never finish pursuing her own designs.”

      St. Clair dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I cannot speak to that, my lord, for we live quietly here and are seldom made aware of what is happening beyond our gates. We seldom receive company nowadays, and since my wife, Amanda, died, more than a year ago, I have sought little to do with the world beyond my walls.”

      Richard’s response was instantaneous, emphatic and not at all what St. Clair had wished to hear: “Then you need to get out more and move about in the world. Which is why I am here this night.” Having uttered these ominous words the Duke fell silent, kneading a ball of bread between thumb and finger, his face pensive as he stared towards the roaring fire in the great hearth. When he spoke next, his words surprised the older man. “I had not heard of your lady wife’s death, and I know how much she meant to you…That must have hit you hard, my friend, and it most certainly explains your ignorance of affairs in the world beyond your gates, as you say, so we will talk no more of that.”

      He stood up and removed his leather jerkin, and tossed it behind him to land on the chair that held their weather-stained cloaks. Sir Henry raised a beckoning finger to Ector and pointed to the garments, and his steward moved immediately to collect them.

      “Your chambers should be ready soon, my liege, and you’ll sleep warm and comfortably. In the meantime, we will have your mantles dried and cleaned, ready for you when you arise.”

      Richard grunted and watched idly as Ector left the anteroom, his arms laden with the two heavy cloaks and the Duke’s jerkin. Then, when the doors closed behind the steward, he took his chair from the table and dragged it close to the roaring fire, where he subsided into it again, his feet stretched out towards the flames. His golden-bearded chin rested upon his chest, lower lip jutting in thought, and his fingers brushing absently at his personal crest, with its single left-facing rampant lion richly embroidered in gold wire against a blood-red shield-shaped background on the left breast of his tunic. The silence stretched, and when it became clear that the Duke had nothing more to say for the time being, St. Clair cleared his throat gently and spoke over the crackling of the fire, attempting to ignore the fluttering apprehension in his breast.

      “You began to speak of why you came here tonight, my liege, something to do with my need to go out and about more. Am I permitted to enquire more closely about what you meant?”

      Richard’s eyes flared open, betraying that he had been on the point of nodding into sleep. He made a harrumphing noise in his throat and sat up straighter, turning in his seat to look over to where St. Clair sat opposite de Sablé at the table. “Aye, you are. I have need of you, my friend. I need you with me, by my side.”

      Henry fought to quell a surge of dismay upon hearing that. He allowed his face to express a lack of understanding as he asked, “Here, my liege, in Anjou?”

      “No, damnation! In Outremer—the Holy Land.” He glared at St. Clair for a moment, then clearly remembered what the older man had said about his detachment from worldly affairs. “I have been in close communication with the new Pope, Clement, these past few months. It seems we have had a plethora of popes in this past year, would you not agree? Urban the Third, dead in December of the year before last, then another Gregory, the Eighth, for two short months until last March, and now the third Clement, anxious to proceed with this new war after barely a year in office…I suppose you heard about my father’s commitment to winning back the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the Holy Cross for Gregory, last January?”

      St. Clair shook his head, wide eyed. “No, my lord, I think not. Or if I did, the tidings did not penetrate my grief. My wife died mere weeks after Pope Urban’s death.”

      Richard looked hard at the older man, then jerked his head in a terse nod. “Aye, well, Henry swore an oath to Pope Gregory in Gisors, about a month before we heard of Gregory’s death, hard on the heels of Urban’s passing. In truth, he made the pledge in Gregory’s absence, to Archbishop Josias of Tyre, the only Christian see left occupied in all of Outremer. Anyway, the old man committed us all to the war, myself and Philip in particular, even though I was not there—but that should not surprise you, as well as you know him and me. The old lion saw my mere absence as no impediment to his paternal dedication of my life to the papal cause.”

      Although St. Clair was feigning interest in this information, he felt that his persistent ignorance was irritating Richard, who cleared his throat noisily and returned to what he had been saying. “Well, it is all arranged, it seems. The French levies are to wear red crosses on white surcoats, the English white on red, and the Flemish green—presumably on white. All highly colorful and rich with meaning, I suppose. We are all agreed to set out next year, but of course my father has no intention of going with us. This is all a ploy to set me safely out of the way while he goes about his own designs of putting my useless brother John on England’s throne. He’ll plead infirmity, sickness, and old age when it comes time to rally to the standards, you wait and see.

      “But this third Pope Clement is not a stupid man, and he has made that more than plain to me. He can see clearly what’s afoot here—thanks to the snouting and burrowing of his bishops here and in England—and he knows I will not meekly step aside for my useless, half-wit brother. And so he has expressed his sympathy for my concerns, because he has need of me—wants me to take up arms on behalf of Mother Church, in Jerusalem, as leader of his new Frankish army of deliverance that will win back the Frankish Kingdom from the infidels.

      “That desire, were it the sole wish that Il Papa had, would leave me unimpressed, since I have intended to lead the army anyway, ever since I first heard of it. But the German Emperor, Barbarossa, jumped into Gregory’s plans headlong before the old Pope died, swearing to raise an army of Teutons more than two hundred thousand strong. And that, of course, has all of Rome, Clement and all his cardinals, a-chittering СКАЧАТЬ