baby, skittish only with-” She caught herself, but not in time, and Justin finished the sentence for her.
“Only with strangers,” he said softly.
William the Bastard had chosen Nottingham’s site for its strategic significance, on a red sandstone ridge high above the River Trent. A new settlement had quickly sprung up in its protective shadow, nestled between the castle and the old town, and more than a hundred years later, the partition persisted. Nottingham was separated into the Norman-French Borough and the Saxon Borough, each with its own sheriff and bailiff. Justin was both intrigued and unsettled by the dichotomy-two towns, two ethnic identities-for he rarely thought about the social consequences of the Conquest. While French was his mother tongue, he also spoke English, and felt equally at home with the Saxon Aldred or the Norman Luke de Marston. The two halves of Nottingham reminded him that England, too, was a country divided, with a king who spoke not a word of English.
While the castle still held out, the city had opened its gates to Richard at once. The streets were filled with men-at-arms, vendors, peddlers, beggars, the inevitable prostitutes drawn by an army’s presence, and local curiosity-seekers, eager to watch as Christendom’s most celebrated soldier lay siege to his brother John’s stronghold. The atmosphere was almost festive-until Justin reached the castle.
Justin had been told that the fortress had been under siege for weeks, but it was obvious that there had been a recent assault. The timber palisades enclosing the outer bailey were still smoldering, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low over the site. The torn-up bloody ground testified to the cost of the onslaught, as did the newly dug grave pits. The king’s men were now in control of the outer bailey, and were in the process of making ready for an attack upon the upper and middle baileys. Even with his limited siege experience, Justin could see this would be a much greater challenge, for Richard’s soldiers would be charging uphill against men entrenched behind thick stone walls.
He was searching for Will Longsword, John’s half brother. They’d established a good rapport and he could rely upon Will for an accurate account of the events that had occurred since Richard’s return to English soil. He was sure, too, that Will would know where the queen was lodging. But finding Will in this turbulent, roiling sea of soldiers would not be easy.
He never did find Will but, much to his surprise, he soon saw a familiar figure, a small man astride a big bay stallion, well armored in chain mail and the authority of command. “My lord earl!” he cried, loudly enough to attract the Earl of Chester’s attention. At the sight of Justin, he looked equally surprised, and urged his mount in the younger man’s direction.
“What are you doing here?” Justin exclaimed, and then grimaced, for it was obvious what the earl was doing- laying siege to Nottingham Castle. He amended his query to “When did you get here, my lord?”
“A few weeks ago. Last month the Council authorized the seizure of Lord John’s castles at Nottingham, Tickhill, Marlborough, Lancaster, and St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. The earls of Hunting-don and Derby and I were chosen to reduce Nottingham to a pile of rubble, so I made haste to return from Brittany. Marlborough and Lancaster were quickly taken, and the commander at St Michael’s Mount died of fright upon hearing that King Richard was free.” Chester’s smile was mordant. “A pity all of the king’s foes could not be so obliging.”
“So that leaves only Tickhill and Nottingham?”
“Only Nottingham. We got word this morn that Tickhill has yielded to the Bishop of Durham. Unfortunately the stubborn sods behind these walls”-with a wave of his hand toward the castle keep-“have balked at surrendering. They are convinced that King Richard is dead and this is a clever trick to deceive them into giving up. The king did not take kindly to being dismissed as an impostor, as you can well imagine.”
Justin looked over at the charred palisade walls. “So he ordered an assault upon the castle.”
“He led it himself, de Quincy, and a bloody one it was, with fierce fighting and many deaths. But he did in one day what we’d failed to do in nigh on a month. He took the outer bailey, set fire to the barbican guarding the second gate, and only withdrew when night fell. Today he ordered his carpenters to build mangonels, and whilst we wait for them to be done, he has provided some entertainment for our men, and for those huddling within the castle.”
“What do you mean, my lord?” Justin asked in perplexity and Chester smiled grimly.
“Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”
The siege engines were being constructed on the hill north of the castle, within sight of the garrison but out of range of their crossbows. And here, too, a gallows had been erected. Several bodies dangled slowly in the wind. As Justin and Chester reined in to watch, another prisoner was dragged up onto the gallows, hands tied behind his back. A noose was placed around his neck and then he was dispatched to God. Justin made the sign of the Cross over the strangling man, relieved when his legs finally stopped kicking.
“Some of John’s men,” Chester said, “taken in yesterday’s assault. The king wanted these rebels to see what awaits those who defy him.” Glancing toward approaching horsemen, he said, “Here he comes now.”
Justin did not need to be told that. Richard Lionheart wore the light armor he’d become accustomed to in the heat of the Holy Land, a chain-mail hauberk and a helmet with nose guard. He was as fair as John was dark; the hair curling out of the back of his helmet was a burnished red-gold and the eyes narrowed upon the castle walls were a blazing blue. He was astride the most spectacular stallion Justin had ever seen, the shade of polished pearl, with a gait that was poetry in motion and a streaming silver tail that trailed almost to the ground. Gilded by sunlight, man and horse looked otherworldly, as if they’d ridden right out of a minstrel’s tale of bygone glory, and as he looked upon the English king, Justin found himself thinking unexpectedly: Poor John.
The Queen had chosen to await the resolution of the siege of Nottingham at a nearby royal manor. The next morning, Justin set out for Clipstone, deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest. He’d been told it was a hunting lodge built by Eleanor’s husband, the late King Henry, and he half expected it to be a rustic, simple structure, for Henry had never been overly concerned about comfort, especially when he was pursuing his passion for the hunt. He discovered, though, that Clipstone was a residence of substance, with a large stone hall, a king’s chamber, chapel, stables, fishpond, even a deer park, and Queen Eleanor was holding court as if she were back at Westminster.
Admitted into the great hall, Justin was startled to see so many princes of the Church. At first glance, it looked as if every bishop in England had come to do honor to the English king. He recognized the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York, who was-like Morgan Bloet and Will Longsword-a bastard son of King Henry. He recognized, too, the bishops of Hereford and Worcester, and did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he did not find his father’s tall, stately figure among the others.
The queen was the center of attention, as she’d been for almost all of her seventy years on God’s earth. Her face framed by a fine linen barbette, her hair covered by a delicate, gauzy veil held in place by a gold circlet, she was elegant and regal in damask silk the color of claret, and from a distance, she appeared to be defying time as boldly as she’d defied two royal husbands and the conventions that defined and circumscribed female behavior in their world. Up close, though, she looked far more fragile, a woman who’d lost as many battles as she’d won, relying upon an indomitable will to spur on an aging body.
Surrounded by prelates, she was relating a story of her son’s experiences in the Holy Land, and, as always, Justin was startled to see John’s greenish-gold eyes in her face. “It was my son’s greatest sorrow that he was unable to recapture Jerusalem from Saladin. On one of his scouting expeditions, he rode to the top of the hill the crusaders called Montjoie, which offered a view of Jerusalem from its heights. But Richard refused to join the others, instead putting up his shield to block out the sight, saying that if he was not able to deliver the Holy City from the infidels, he was not worthy to behold it.”
That was a story sure to win approbation from an audience of churchmen, and there were murmurings of admiration and approval. Eleanor’s smile was one Justin would long remember, for he’d never seen her show such unguarded joy. He settled himself on the fringes of the crowd, content to wait until she took notice of him.
The sun was slanting toward the west as Justin walked beside the fishpond with his queen. Others were trailing after them-her ladies-in-waiting, chaplain, an earl, and several bishops-but they kept at a discreet distance, allowing Eleanor to converse in private with her agent. The fishpond was located in a southeast corner of the estate, some distance from the manor, and Justin was surprised by the queen’s stamina; she’d set a brisk pace that had yet to falter. Approaching the water’s edge, she halted, listening to the silence, breathing in the cool spring air, and then said, “Tell me more about this forged letter.”
