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THE BISHOP'S PALACE,
CHESTER, ENGLAND
December 1192
"Do you think the king is dead?"
Aubrey de Quincy was caught off balance and furious with himself for his
negligence; he ought to have expected this. Throughout their meal, the
sole topic had been King Richard's disappearance. All of England--and
indeed, most of Christendom--talked of little else this Christmastide, for
more than two months had passed since the Lionheart had sailed from Acre.
By December, other crusaders had begun to reach English ports. But none had word of the king.
Had the query been posed by one of his other guests, Aubrey would have
taken it for natural curiosity. Coming from Hugh de Nonant, it was neither
random nor innocent. Coventry's worldly bishop had few peers when it came
to conversational ambushes, laying his verbal snares so deftly that his
quarry rarely sensed danger until it was too late.
Aubrey had no intention, though, of falling heedlessly into the other
bishop's trap. Stalling for time, he signaled for more wine; he prided
himself upon his hospitality, so much so that men said none in the Marches
set a finer table than His Grace, the Bishop of Chester. The servers were
bringing in the next course, a large peacock afloat in a sea of gravy,
bones strutted and skin and feathers painstakingly refitted, a sight
impressive enough to elicit admiring murmurs from the guests. Aubrey's
cooks had labored for hours to create this culinary masterpiece. Now he
gazed at it with indifferent eyes, for the shadow of treason had fallen
across the hall.
Was King Richard dead? Many men thought so, for certes. In alehouses and
taverns, they argued whether his ship had been sunk in a gale or attacked
by pirates. The credulous speculated about sea monsters. But as the weeks
went by, more and more of the missing king's subjects suspected that he
was dead, must be dead. And none willed it more passionately than the man
Hugh de Nonant served.
The Crusade had been a failure; not even so fine a soldier-king as Richard
had been able to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels. But to Aubrey, the
Lionheart's greatest failure was that he'd not sired a son. He'd named his
young nephew Arthur as his heir, but Arthur was a child, dwelling with his
mother in Brittany. There was another royal rival, one much closer at
hand, Richard's younger brother, John, Count of Mortain. No one doubted
that John would seek to deny Arthur the crown. What none could be sure of,
however, was what the queen mother would do. All knew that Queen Eleanor
and John were estranged. Yet he was still her son. If it came to war, whom
would she back: John or Arthur?
Aubrey doubted that John would make a good king, for if the serpent was
"more subtle than any beast of the field," so, too, was Queen Eleanor's
youngest son, unfettered by scruples or conscience qualms. But he did not
doubt that John would prevail over Arthur--one way or another. And so he'd
concluded that if he were ever faced with that choice, he'd throw his lot
in with John.
But this was far more dangerous. The Bishop of Coventry's deceptively
innocuous question confirmed Aubrey's worst fears. John was not willing to
wait for word of Richard's death. John had never been one for waiting. But
what if Richard was not dead? What if he returned to reclaim his crown? If
Arthur was no match for John, neither was John a match for Richard. His wrath would
be terrible to behold. And even if he eventually forgave John, there would
be no forgiveness for the men who'd backed him.
But Aubrey knew that if he balked at supporting John's coup and Richard
was indeed dead, he'd be squandering his one chance to gain a king's
favor. For John nursed a grudge to the grave, and he'd not be forgetting
who stood with him . . . and who had not.
"Well?" the Bishop of Coventry prodded, smiling amiably as if they were
merely exchanging pleasantries. "What say you? Is he dead?"
Aubrey's own smile was as bland as almond milk. "If I knew the answer to
that question, my lord bishop, I'd be riding straightaway for London to
inform the queen."
"I fear the worst, alas," Hugh confided, though with no noticeable regret.
"If evil has not befallen him, surely his whereabouts would be known by
now."
"I'm not ready to abandon all hope," Aubrey parried, "and for certes, the
queen is not."
"It is to be expected that a mother would cling to the last shreds of
hope, no matter how meagre or paltry. But the rest of us do not have that
luxury, for how long can England be without a king?" Hugh had a pleasant
voice, mellow and intimate, ideal for sharing secrets, and his words
reached Aubrey's ear alone. "How long dare we wait?"
Aubrey was spared the need to reply by the sudden appearance of his
steward on the dais. "My lord bishop, may I have a word with you?"
"What is it, Martin? Is something amiss?"
"It is Justin, my lord. He rode in a few moments ago, is insisting that he
must see you at once."
"Justin?" Aubrey was startled and not pleased. "Tell him I will see him
after the meal is done and my guests have gone to their beds. Have the
cooks see that he is fed." To Aubrey's surprise, the steward made no move
to withdraw. "Well?"
The man shifted uncomfortably. "It is just that . . . that the lad seems
sorely distraught, my lord. In truth, I've never seen him like this. I do
not think he's of a mind to wait."
Aubrey kept his temper in check; he had contempt for men who were ruled by
emotion and impulse. "I am not offering him a choice," he said coolly.
"See to it."
He was vexed by Justin's unexpected and ill-timed arrival, and vaguely
uneasy, too, with that peculiar discomfort that only Justin could provoke.
Nor was his mood improved to realize that Hugh de Nonant had overheard the
entire exchange.
"Who is Justin?"
Aubrey gave a dismissive shrug. "No one you know, my
lord . . . a foundling I took in some years back."
He'd hoped that Hugh would take the hint and let the matter drop. But the
Bishop of Coventry had an eerie ability to scent out secrets. Like a pig
rooting after acorns, Aubrey thought sourly, finding himself forced by the
other's unseemly and persistent curiosity to explain that Justin's mother
had died giving him birth. "The father was known but to God, and there
were none to tend to the babe. It was my parish and so when his plight was
brought to my attention, I agreed to do what I could. It is our duty,
after all, to succor Christ's poor. As Scriptures say, 'Suffer the little
children to come unto me.' "
"Very commendable," Hugh said, with hearty approval that would not have
been suspect had the speaker been anyone else. He was regarding Aubrey
benevolently, and Aubrey could only marvel at how deceptive outer
packaging could be. The two men were utterly unlike in appearance: Aubrey
tall and slim and elegant, his fair hair closely cropped and shot through
with silver, and Hugh rotund and ruddy and balding, looking for all the
world like a good-natured, elderly monk. But Aubrey knew this
grandfatherly mien camouflaged a shrewd, cynical intelligence, and Hugh's
curiosity about Justin was neither idle nor benign. Ever on the alert for
weaknesses, the good bishop. And Aubrey was suddenly very angry with
Justin for attracting the notice of so dangerous a man as Hugh de Nonant.
"It may be, though, that you've been too indulgent with the lad," Hugh
remarked placidly. "It does seem rather presumptuous of him to demand an
audience with you."
Aubrey declined the bait. "I've never had reason to complain of his
manners . . . until now. You may be sure that I'll take him to task for
it."
A loud fanfare of trumpets turned all heads toward the door, heralding the
arrival of the meal's piËce de rÈsistance: a great, glazed boar's head on
a gleaming silver platter. Men leaned forward in their seats to see,
Aubrey's minstrels struck up a carol, and in the flurry of the moment, the
bishop's foundling was forgotten.
Aubrey began to relax, once more the gracious host, a role he played well.
The respite gave him the chance, too, to consider his options. He must
find a way to intimate--without actually saying so--that he was indeed
sympathetic to John's cause, but not yet ready to commit himself, not
until there was irrefutable proof of King Richard's death.
It was the sharp-eyed Hugh who first noticed the commotion at the far end
of the hall. In the doorway, the steward was remonstrating with a tall,
dark youth. As Hugh watched, the younger man pulled free of the steward's
restraining hold and stalked up the center aisle toward the dais. Hugh
leaned over and touched his host's sleeve. "May I assume that angry young
interloper is your foundling?"
Oblivious to the intruder bearing down upon them, Aubrey had been
conversing politely with the seatmate to his left, the venerable abbot of
Chester's abbey of St Werburgh. At Hugh's amused warning, he stiffened in
disbelief, then shoved his chair back.
Striding down the steps of the dais, he confronted Justin as he reached
the open hearth, trailed by the steward. "How dare you force your way into
my hall! Are you drunk?"
"We need to talk," Justin said tersely, and Aubrey stared at him
incredulously, unable to believe that Justin could be defying him like
this.
He was acutely aware of all the curious eyes upon them. The steward was
hovering several feet away, looking utterly miserable--as well ...
Présentation de l'éditeur :
CHESTER, ENGLAND
December 1192
"Do you think the king is dead?"
Aubrey de Quincy was caught off balance and furious with himself for his
negligence; he ought to have expected this. Throughout their meal, the
sole topic had been King Richard's disappearance. All of England--and
indeed, most of Christendom--talked of little else this Christmastide, for
more than two months had passed since the Lionheart had sailed from Acre.
By December, other crusaders had begun to reach English ports. But none had word of the king.
Had the query been posed by one of his other guests, Aubrey would have
taken it for natural curiosity. Coming from Hugh de Nonant, it was neither
random nor innocent. Coventry's worldly bishop had few peers when it came
to conversational ambushes, laying his verbal snares so deftly that his
quarry rarely sensed danger until it was too late.
Aubrey had no intention, though, of falling heedlessly into the other
bishop's trap. Stalling for time, he signaled for more wine; he prided
himself upon his hospitality, so much so that men said none in the Marches
set a finer table than His Grace, the Bishop of Chester. The servers were
bringing in the next course, a large peacock afloat in a sea of gravy,
bones strutted and skin and feathers painstakingly refitted, a sight
impressive enough to elicit admiring murmurs from the guests. Aubrey's
cooks had labored for hours to create this culinary masterpiece. Now he
gazed at it with indifferent eyes, for the shadow of treason had fallen
across the hall.
Was King Richard dead? Many men thought so, for certes. In alehouses and
taverns, they argued whether his ship had been sunk in a gale or attacked
by pirates. The credulous speculated about sea monsters. But as the weeks
went by, more and more of the missing king's subjects suspected that he
was dead, must be dead. And none willed it more passionately than the man
Hugh de Nonant served.
The Crusade had been a failure; not even so fine a soldier-king as Richard
had been able to reclaim Jerusalem from the infidels. But to Aubrey, the
Lionheart's greatest failure was that he'd not sired a son. He'd named his
young nephew Arthur as his heir, but Arthur was a child, dwelling with his
mother in Brittany. There was another royal rival, one much closer at
hand, Richard's younger brother, John, Count of Mortain. No one doubted
that John would seek to deny Arthur the crown. What none could be sure of,
however, was what the queen mother would do. All knew that Queen Eleanor
and John were estranged. Yet he was still her son. If it came to war, whom
would she back: John or Arthur?
Aubrey doubted that John would make a good king, for if the serpent was
"more subtle than any beast of the field," so, too, was Queen Eleanor's
youngest son, unfettered by scruples or conscience qualms. But he did not
doubt that John would prevail over Arthur--one way or another. And so he'd
concluded that if he were ever faced with that choice, he'd throw his lot
in with John.
But this was far more dangerous. The Bishop of Coventry's deceptively
innocuous question confirmed Aubrey's worst fears. John was not willing to
wait for word of Richard's death. John had never been one for waiting. But
what if Richard was not dead? What if he returned to reclaim his crown? If
Arthur was no match for John, neither was John a match for Richard. His wrath would
be terrible to behold. And even if he eventually forgave John, there would
be no forgiveness for the men who'd backed him.
But Aubrey knew that if he balked at supporting John's coup and Richard
was indeed dead, he'd be squandering his one chance to gain a king's
favor. For John nursed a grudge to the grave, and he'd not be forgetting
who stood with him . . . and who had not.
"Well?" the Bishop of Coventry prodded, smiling amiably as if they were
merely exchanging pleasantries. "What say you? Is he dead?"
Aubrey's own smile was as bland as almond milk. "If I knew the answer to
that question, my lord bishop, I'd be riding straightaway for London to
inform the queen."
"I fear the worst, alas," Hugh confided, though with no noticeable regret.
"If evil has not befallen him, surely his whereabouts would be known by
now."
"I'm not ready to abandon all hope," Aubrey parried, "and for certes, the
queen is not."
"It is to be expected that a mother would cling to the last shreds of
hope, no matter how meagre or paltry. But the rest of us do not have that
luxury, for how long can England be without a king?" Hugh had a pleasant
voice, mellow and intimate, ideal for sharing secrets, and his words
reached Aubrey's ear alone. "How long dare we wait?"
Aubrey was spared the need to reply by the sudden appearance of his
steward on the dais. "My lord bishop, may I have a word with you?"
"What is it, Martin? Is something amiss?"
"It is Justin, my lord. He rode in a few moments ago, is insisting that he
must see you at once."
"Justin?" Aubrey was startled and not pleased. "Tell him I will see him
after the meal is done and my guests have gone to their beds. Have the
cooks see that he is fed." To Aubrey's surprise, the steward made no move
to withdraw. "Well?"
The man shifted uncomfortably. "It is just that . . . that the lad seems
sorely distraught, my lord. In truth, I've never seen him like this. I do
not think he's of a mind to wait."
Aubrey kept his temper in check; he had contempt for men who were ruled by
emotion and impulse. "I am not offering him a choice," he said coolly.
"See to it."
He was vexed by Justin's unexpected and ill-timed arrival, and vaguely
uneasy, too, with that peculiar discomfort that only Justin could provoke.
Nor was his mood improved to realize that Hugh de Nonant had overheard the
entire exchange.
"Who is Justin?"
Aubrey gave a dismissive shrug. "No one you know, my
lord . . . a foundling I took in some years back."
He'd hoped that Hugh would take the hint and let the matter drop. But the
Bishop of Coventry had an eerie ability to scent out secrets. Like a pig
rooting after acorns, Aubrey thought sourly, finding himself forced by the
other's unseemly and persistent curiosity to explain that Justin's mother
had died giving him birth. "The father was known but to God, and there
were none to tend to the babe. It was my parish and so when his plight was
brought to my attention, I agreed to do what I could. It is our duty,
after all, to succor Christ's poor. As Scriptures say, 'Suffer the little
children to come unto me.' "
"Very commendable," Hugh said, with hearty approval that would not have
been suspect had the speaker been anyone else. He was regarding Aubrey
benevolently, and Aubrey could only marvel at how deceptive outer
packaging could be. The two men were utterly unlike in appearance: Aubrey
tall and slim and elegant, his fair hair closely cropped and shot through
with silver, and Hugh rotund and ruddy and balding, looking for all the
world like a good-natured, elderly monk. But Aubrey knew this
grandfatherly mien camouflaged a shrewd, cynical intelligence, and Hugh's
curiosity about Justin was neither idle nor benign. Ever on the alert for
weaknesses, the good bishop. And Aubrey was suddenly very angry with
Justin for attracting the notice of so dangerous a man as Hugh de Nonant.
"It may be, though, that you've been too indulgent with the lad," Hugh
remarked placidly. "It does seem rather presumptuous of him to demand an
audience with you."
Aubrey declined the bait. "I've never had reason to complain of his
manners . . . until now. You may be sure that I'll take him to task for
it."
A loud fanfare of trumpets turned all heads toward the door, heralding the
arrival of the meal's piËce de rÈsistance: a great, glazed boar's head on
a gleaming silver platter. Men leaned forward in their seats to see,
Aubrey's minstrels struck up a carol, and in the flurry of the moment, the
bishop's foundling was forgotten.
Aubrey began to relax, once more the gracious host, a role he played well.
The respite gave him the chance, too, to consider his options. He must
find a way to intimate--without actually saying so--that he was indeed
sympathetic to John's cause, but not yet ready to commit himself, not
until there was irrefutable proof of King Richard's death.
It was the sharp-eyed Hugh who first noticed the commotion at the far end
of the hall. In the doorway, the steward was remonstrating with a tall,
dark youth. As Hugh watched, the younger man pulled free of the steward's
restraining hold and stalked up the center aisle toward the dais. Hugh
leaned over and touched his host's sleeve. "May I assume that angry young
interloper is your foundling?"
Oblivious to the intruder bearing down upon them, Aubrey had been
conversing politely with the seatmate to his left, the venerable abbot of
Chester's abbey of St Werburgh. At Hugh's amused warning, he stiffened in
disbelief, then shoved his chair back.
Striding down the steps of the dais, he confronted Justin as he reached
the open hearth, trailed by the steward. "How dare you force your way into
my hall! Are you drunk?"
"We need to talk," Justin said tersely, and Aubrey stared at him
incredulously, unable to believe that Justin could be defying him like
this.
He was acutely aware of all the curious eyes upon them. The steward was
hovering several feet away, looking utterly miserable--as well ...
AD 1193. England lies uneasy, a land without a king. Richard the Lionheart is feared drowned on his return from Crusade, his brother John conspires to usurp the crown. On the throne, in the Lionheart's stead, sits Eleanor of Aquitaine. She is determined to prevent a civil war, but there are few she can trust. Justin de Quincy is bastard-born son of the Aubrey de Quincy, Bishop of Chester. The Bishop never acknowledged Justin, bestowing on the boy - in lieu of name or fortune - only an education. As it happens, it is a gift that, together with a blood-stained letter given to him by a dying man, will take de Quincy to the very centre of power - and into the heart of danger. Moving from the Tower of London to the alehouses and stews of Southwark, from to the mountains of Wales to the wild coasts of Brittany, de Quincy will prove his mettle as the Queen's Man - or find an early grave - as he uncovers the dark intrigues of Eleanor's court.
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- ÉditeurHead of Zeus
- Date d'édition2016
- ISBN 10 1784974153
- ISBN 13 9781784974152
- ReliureBroché
- Nombre de pages384
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The Queen's Man [Soft Cover ]
Edité par
Head of Zeus
(2001)
ISBN 10 : 1784974153
ISBN 13 : 9781784974152
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