She had little time. Richard was due to arrive in England in August — was even now just across the channel — and it was being suggested that his coronation should be early in September; the third, they said. Perhaps it was this sense of rush that made her normal good sense desert her, for, to general surprise and quite a lot of dismay, she announced that, in Richard’s liberal and humane name, the jails of England were to be emptied, and those awaiting trial or punishment given their freedom.
The move was, perhaps, a gamble, a typical Eleanor, typical Richard, gamble. If it worked, then hundreds of genuinely grateful ex-prisoners would infiltrate English society to its depths — literally its depths — spreading the message of how wise, how Christian, was this new king. And, indeed, the majority of those pent up were imprisoned for no greater crime than infringement of England’s strict and ruthlessly applied forestry laws. If it failed, though, if just one released felon abused the great gift of his freedom and reverted to his old ways, then what would be the public reaction? Would they say this Richard was a fool, believing you could release a criminal and, naively, that gratitude would lead to honesty? Would they say, even more damagingly, that this new reign which, so they were told, promised so much, was starting under a cursed star?
Yes. They would.
* * *
They would, and they did. It had happened.
The communication from England which Richard kept touching that hot July day in northern France was Eleanor’s account of an unusually brutal murder which had just been discovered. In some area of this blasted new kingdom he was about to inherit called the Weald.
Weald. What was that, Weald? What did it mean? More to the point, where in God’s name was it? His mother had mentioned some town. Ton something. Ton what? Some place she was interested in — some place she actually knew, whatever the relevance of that might be — because there was a convent there. Some abbey, on the lines of her beloved Fontevraud. What had she said about the place? That it was ruled, as was Fontevraud, by a woman?
God’s boots, Richard thought, an abbey ruled by a woman.
He itched to get the letter out and reread it, more thoroughly this time. But Absolon was still droning on, and behind him three more bishops had lined up to have their say. And a papal legate was expected to arrive later in the day.
Richard sighed, trying to fix his mind on what the priest was saying. But concentration was proving elusive; he was distracted by Absolon’s left hand, gesticulating in emphasis, by his beard, with a single long, untrimmed hair that sprang out from the rest, by the old man’s yellowing teeth.
From the courtyard outside sounded the excited whinny of a horse, instantly answered by another. Someone emitted a laugh, quickly shushed. My men, Richard thought, are going hunting.
He stood up again, stepping down from his raised chair, this time careful to avoid the upthrusting slab. With a courteous bow to Absolon, who was standing with his mouth open, displaying several rotten teeth, Richard was about to murmur his excuses.
He changed his mind, and left the hall without another word. He was, after all, King.
* * *
He did not ride out with his men. Not, in any case, with the hunting party, whose boyish high spirits would have been as damaging to concentration as Absolon’s ramblings. Instead, he summoned one of his squires and a handful of the older men, one or two knights among them, leading them off into the forest at a pace which they had to exert themselves to follow. They rode for some miles, and then, as the others loosened rein and allowed their horses to amble along beside the small stream that flowed through the woods, Richard drew apart.
He dismounted, and settled himself on a grassy bank fragrant with wild flowers. And, as his tethered horse began to tear up mouthfuls of the lush pasture, at last returned to his mother’s letter.
It made no better reading this time. In fact it was rather worse, since, now that he wasn’t trying to listen to two people talking to him at the same time, he could give it his full attention.
The facts themselves were repugnant. A young nun, less than a year into her noviciate, raped and murdered, throat cut, body left exposed to anyone who passed. Poor, innocent child — in fact the woman was twenty-three, but his mother liked the sound of a ringing phrase — slaughtered for no apparent reason, unless it were robbery. A jewelled cross had been found nearby, and there was conjecture that the murderer had been disturbed, frightened into throwing away his spoils.
The location of the murder could not have been more inconvenient. The victim was a member of the community of Hawkenlye Abbey, and the abbey was situated a mere handful of miles from the town of Tonbridge. With its position on the Medway, at the place where the main London to Hastings road crossed the river, any horrified gossip that reached the town from the abbey would spread like fire in a cornfield up to London. To be received and discussed by the kingdom’s men of power, who would not hesitate to form opinions and pass judgement.
‘And there will be gossip,’ Richard muttered, ‘there always is. And how can it best be contained? Who, in God’s name, can advise me in my dealings with this barbaric place?’
‘Sire?’
He turned at the address, having thought himself out of earshot of the others. One of the older men stood before him — one of the knights — and, as Richard looked at him, he knelt.
‘Don’t kneel there, man!’ Richard said impatiently. ‘It’s muddy.’
‘Oh. So it is.’ The man looked resignedly down at his one soaked knee. ‘Next to new and clean on,’ he said, not quite quietly enough.
‘I’m honoured,’ Richard said laconically.
The man’s head flew up. ‘Sire, please, I didn’t mean … Of course I would dress in my best for you! I only meant-’
‘It is of no significance.’ Richard waved away the excuses. He was trying to remember who the man was, and why the sight of his tall frame and tough-featured, appealing face should somehow be reassuring … ‘What is your name?’ he asked abruptly.
The man fell on one knee again. The same knee, either, Richard thought with mild amusement, because this was how he habitually did it, or because he would thus avoid soiling both legs of the new hose. ‘Josse d’Acquin, sire,’ the knight said, turning his cap in his hands, then clumsily dropping it. A shame; it, also, looked new, and was in the latest fashion. A detail which, somehow, did not seem in keeping with the man. Perhaps he had made some attempt to smarten himself, knowing he would be in the company of the court set.
‘Well, Josse d’Acquin,’ Richard said, ‘I have been trying, and so far failing, to recall how you and I are acquainted. Will you enlighten me?’
‘It was years ago, sire,’ the man said eagerly, ‘it’s no surprise your grace doesn’t remember, why, we were nothing but boys, really, you, your brothers the Young King, God rest him, and Geoffrey, my, he was only fifteen! And you, sire, scarce a year older! As for us, the pages and squires, well, I was one of the oldest, and I wasn’t much more than thirteen.’ Throwing care to the winds, he shifted his position so that his not inconsiderable weight was borne on both knees, then went on, ‘Back in Seventy-three, it was, sire, and you and young Henry were in a right pother with your father, God rest his soul-’
‘Amen,’ Richard responded piously.
‘- over his refusal to give you more of a say in the running of things, in particular your own estates, and-’
‘We fought together!’ Memory had returned to Richard, full-blown and complete with sights, sounds, deeds and powerful emotions of a time sixteen years in the past. ‘We encountered a scouting party of my father’s and Henry said we should make a run for it, since you and the other squires were so young and we did not have the right to involve you in something so one-sided and foolhardy, and-’