just a brief moment, the abbot’s offer seemed the most wonderful idea. From that good man’s chamber, I could hear the beautiful but haunting chanting of the monks at practice in the church across the courtyard and the skin puckered into tiny bumps on my arms. I took a sip of my friend’s fine wine. A life filled with this Heavenly music; a life dedicated to God’s love. Why not? So peaceful, so simple, so godly. I’d make an end to all the killing, all the horror, pain and death.
The moment passed. I had been entrusted with a vital mission by my lord and by d’Aubigny. My friends were counting on me and there was my son Robert to consider, too. I could not yet abandon my boy to face the cruelties of this world all alone.
I shook my head. ‘Perhaps one day, your grace,’ I said. ‘Perhaps one day.’
Our talk naturally turned to the war between the barons and the King. The abbot had strong opinions but he adamantly refused to take sides in John’s dispute with his rebellious noblemen. Each, he insisted, was as bad as the other.
‘I am a man who serves God,’ he said. ‘Although I believe I am loyal to England as well. I would not help to put another man on the throne.’
‘If youare worrying that Lord Fitzwalter seeks the crown, I can assure you I and many other men would prevent that from happening. All we ask is that the King respects and abides by the charter to which he has already agreed and set his seal.’
‘I do not fear Fitzwalter’s ambitions, prodigious though they undoubtedly are. It’s the French I fear.’
‘The French?’ I said, surprised. ‘What have they to do with England?’
‘You have not heard?’
I shook my head.
‘There is some talk that the rebels are seeking arms and men from the French – perhaps even a small army.’
‘What of it?’ I said.
‘I fear that a French army might seek a suitable recompense for their aid – the throne of England, perhaps.’
I laughed out loud. The notion was absurd. ‘My lord Fitzwalter proudly calls himself an English patriot. He would not offer the crown to Philip of France, even if he had it within his gift. No Englishman would – all men, rebel and royalist alike, would take up arms to repel the common enemy.’
‘Can you be so sure?’ the abbot said.
‘I’m certain. Fitzwalter would not do it. And my lord of Locksley would never allow a French tyrant to rule here. Never. And, for that matter, neither would I.’
‘Perhaps it is only idle talk, Sir Alan,’ said the abbot soothingly, ‘mere dairy maids’ gossip. Have a little more wine and tell me about your family and your manor – you reside at Westbury, did you not say? Tell me about it.’
‘Thank you but no, your grace. I must be away to bed,’ I said. ‘I am grateful for your hospitality, your prayers and for succouring the people of Rochester in their hour of need, but duty dictates that I ride to London at first light to speak with Lord Fitzwalter.’
* * *
Although thewalls of London were well manned by disciplined troops, as I clattered over the bridge and rode into the filthy narrow streets of the city, I sensed an air of revelry, wild gaiety, almost outright debauchery everywhere. Many of the citizens I passed appeared to be drunk; others were sleeping in the streets, sprawled like dead men. Slatternly women, lips painted carmine, their abundant breasts spilling out of their chemises, called to me from the upper storeys of the houses, inviting me to spend time with them. Gangs of purple-faced men at the street corners roared and jostled and swilled from wine flasks and tankards. It might have been the aftermath of a great victory, as if we had already triumphed over the enemy – or the opposite, that disaster had fallen, all hope lost and the desperate folk were snatching a few moments of pleasure before perdition.
Cass had pleaded with me the night before to allow him to visit his family home not far from the south coast of Kent. He had
The moment passed. I had been entrusted with a vital mission by my lord and by d’Aubigny. My friends were counting on me and there was my son Robert to consider, too. I could not yet abandon my boy to face the cruelties of this world all alone.
I shook my head. ‘Perhaps one day, your grace,’ I said. ‘Perhaps one day.’
Our talk naturally turned to the war between the barons and the King. The abbot had strong opinions but he adamantly refused to take sides in John’s dispute with his rebellious noblemen. Each, he insisted, was as bad as the other.
‘I am a man who serves God,’ he said. ‘Although I believe I am loyal to England as well. I would not help to put another man on the throne.’
‘If youare worrying that Lord Fitzwalter seeks the crown, I can assure you I and many other men would prevent that from happening. All we ask is that the King respects and abides by the charter to which he has already agreed and set his seal.’
‘I do not fear Fitzwalter’s ambitions, prodigious though they undoubtedly are. It’s the French I fear.’
‘The French?’ I said, surprised. ‘What have they to do with England?’
‘You have not heard?’
I shook my head.
‘There is some talk that the rebels are seeking arms and men from the French – perhaps even a small army.’
‘What of it?’ I said.
‘I fear that a French army might seek a suitable recompense for their aid – the throne of England, perhaps.’
I laughed out loud. The notion was absurd. ‘My lord Fitzwalter proudly calls himself an English patriot. He would not offer the crown to Philip of France, even if he had it within his gift. No Englishman would – all men, rebel and royalist alike, would take up arms to repel the common enemy.’
‘Can you be so sure?’ the abbot said.
‘I’m certain. Fitzwalter would not do it. And my lord of Locksley would never allow a French tyrant to rule here. Never. And, for that matter, neither would I.’
‘Perhaps it is only idle talk, Sir Alan,’ said the abbot soothingly, ‘mere dairy maids’ gossip. Have a little more wine and tell me about your family and your manor – you reside at Westbury, did you not say? Tell me about it.’
‘Thank you but no, your grace. I must be away to bed,’ I said. ‘I am grateful for your hospitality, your prayers and for succouring the people of Rochester in their hour of need, but duty dictates that I ride to London at first light to speak with Lord Fitzwalter.’
* * *
Although thewalls of London were well manned by disciplined troops, as I clattered over the bridge and rode into the filthy narrow streets of the city, I sensed an air of revelry, wild gaiety, almost outright debauchery everywhere. Many of the citizens I passed appeared to be drunk; others were sleeping in the streets, sprawled like dead men. Slatternly women, lips painted carmine, their abundant breasts spilling out of their chemises, called to me from the upper storeys of the houses, inviting me to spend time with them. Gangs of purple-faced men at the street corners roared and jostled and swilled from wine flasks and tankards. It might have been the aftermath of a great victory, as if we had already triumphed over the enemy – or the opposite, that disaster had fallen, all hope lost and the desperate folk were snatching a few moments of pleasure before perdition.
Cass had pleaded with me the night before to allow him to visit his family home not far from the south coast of Kent. He had
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