‘I don’t understand,’ Josse admitted. He stared at her. ‘Do you?’
‘No.’ She dropped her head into the palm of her unbandaged hand, kneading at her temple with her knuckles. ‘Not really. Not that it makes any difference.’
‘Does your head ache?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘A little.’
He stood up, moving round to her side of the table. ‘Why not lie down?’ he suggested. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood, you’ve solved a murder that wasn’t, you’re in pain from both your hurt finger and your head. Don’t you think it’s time, my dear Abbess Helewise, to admit you’re only human, and need a good, long sleep?’
Her head flew up at his words, and he thought she was going to tick him off for his presumption. But then, to his great surprise, she began to laugh. ‘I don’t see what’s funny,’ he said, quite offended. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘Oh, Josse, I know!’ She had recovered her solemnity. ‘Between you and that old hen Euphemia, I don’t think I stand a chance of staying here at my post for the rest of the day. So I think I might just give in. I must admit, the thought of lying down somewhere quiet, with a pleasant breeze to cool me, and one of Sister Euphemia’s cold lavender compresses on my forehead, is increasingly appealing…’ She stood up, too quickly, and he caught her as she toppled.
‘Told you so,’ he murmured close to her wimpled and veiled ear.
‘I shall pretend I didn’t hear that,’ she remarked. Then, with her not inconsiderable weight leaning against him — she was, he’d noticed, broad-shouldered as well as tall — he helped her out of the room and across to the infirmary.
Chapter Nineteen
The coronation of Richard Plantagenet, second surviving son of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, took place in Westminster Abbey on 3 September 1189.
The new King, Richard I of England, was five days short of his thirty-second birthday. He had been in the country for a fortnight, and, even as the day of extravagant and lengthy ceremony continued, the greater part of his able brain was thinking ahead to when he could leave again.
Two years earlier, the Muslim leader, Saladin, had captured both Jerusalem and Acre from the Franks. Guy of Lusignan, King of Jerusalem, set about besieging his stolen territory, but it had become clear that the recapture of the Holy Sepulchre was not a task that he could do alone. Richard Plantagenet had been ready — more than ready — to go to his aid, and had taken the cross in preparation. However, the timetable of events in Outremer had not been drawn up to suit the Plantagenets; the everlasting intrigues and in-fighting between Richard, his father and his brothers continued to make it impossible for Richard to embark for the crusade in the east.
Now that he was King, however, all that was over. Even before the crown was on his head, he had demanded a muster of ships. And, across the Channel, his companion-in-arms, friend and ally, Philip Augustus of France, was waiting …
Henry II’s thirty-five years on the throne had left England sound. Unlike his son and heir, he had involved himself in all aspects of good government, and had managed to achieve that remarkable feat of integration simply because he had intelligent, informed help. His small group of administrators had shared with him the aim of making the country strong. And solvent: when Henry died, he left a substantial sum, rumoured to be in the region of 100,000 marks, in the Treasury.
Richard’s magnificent coronation nibbled away at quite a lot of that. But, nevertheless, the remainder would have been a more than adequate inheritance for most kings.
Kings, that is, who were not champing at the bit with impatience to go off to war.
The raising of revenue was Richard’s sole, driving purpose. His new kingdom, which he hardly knew, was no more to him than a vast bank, where, happily, his credit appeared to be good. Whether or not his demands were acceptable to his new people, whether, even, the majority of his subjects shared his fanatical determination that the Holy Land must be wrested out of infidel hands, were matters of supreme indifference to him. The important thing was to raise as much money as he could, as quickly as he could; he once joked that he would sell London if he could find a buyer.
Quite a lot of people didn’t realise it was a joke.
In those hectic days of the new reign, it seemed that everything was for sale. Not even the highest in the land were exempt from demands; Henry’s able and loyal advisors were made to pay heavily for the dubious privilege of the new King’s goodwill. And, lower down in the establishment hierarchy, officials were thrown out of office to make room for incumbents who paid for their new appointments. Anyone whose money was a burden to him, went the ironic saying, was relieved of it; it was possible, at this extraordinary, country-wide market, to buy privileges, lordships, earldoms, sheriffdoms, castles, even towns; human nature being what it is, there were plenty of people more than ready to advance themselves the quick way, via their wealth, instead of the more noble but painstaking route of via their worth.
Richard achieved his immediate goal; money flowed into his crusade fund like the great Thames through his new capital. But at what price?
* * *
Josse d’Acquin had duly reported back to the King concerning the deaths at Hawkenlye Abbey, although the King, understandably, perhaps, did not appear to remember who Josse was or what he was talking about; Josse happened to catch him during the time in mid-August when, freshly arrived in his new kingdom, he was re-acquainting himself with a country and a people he hadn’t seen since early childhood.
‘Hawkenlye?’ he had said, when, at long last, Josse had managed to shoulder his way to the front of the queue of men eager for the new King’s ear. ‘Hawkenlye? A dead nun?’
Josse reminded him of the salient facts. Down on one knee, head bent in respect, his words were drowned by the general commotion all around; Richard’s peripatetic court was settling itself into its new abode with characteristic, noisy exuberance.
He felt strong hands grasp his shoulders, and the King hauled him to his feet. ‘Stand up, man, and talk so that I can hear you!’ he bellowed impatiently. ‘What’s all this about released murderers?’
He recounted his story again, and this time light dawned on the King. ‘Ah, yes, the abbey full of women, where the miracle spring was discovered!’ he exclaimed. ‘Indeed, Sir John-’
‘Josse,’ Josse murmured.
‘I think I do recall…’ Richard frowned thunderously at Josse, as if trying to draw intelligence from him.
But, just then, Richard’s chief advisor, William de Longchamps, sidled up to the King and, standing on tiptoe, for he was a good head shorter than his sovereign, began to speak urgently and quietly in the King’s ear.
Josse waited for the King to dismiss him, tell him to wait his turn; there was already resentment of the favoured position occupied by Longchamps, who, people were saying, the King was going to appoint as Chancellor. And the man was the son of runaway serfs!
But Richard did not dismiss him. Instead, with a wave of the regal hand, he dismissed Josse.
Walking away, too irritated to show the fawning respect that the occasion demanded, Josse was surprised, on reaching the outer chamber, to feel a detaining hand on his arm.
It was William de Longchamps.
‘I know of your business here, Josse d’Acquin,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I will see to it that the King hears of your success.’
Josse was on the point of saying he’d manage very well on his own, without anyone’s help, when he reconsidered.
Would it do any harm, really, to have the support of the man tipped to be England’s next chancellor? No! Hardly!