usual—no better off than they had been before.
Chapter Six
Henry lounged back to the hearth, shoving the sleeping hound aside and tipping himself backwards in the chair his father had just vacated. “The old fox is still too cunning for us both,” he said, watching a spiral of smoke ascend to a louvre hidden in the blackened rafters. “He threw you a cunning bait, Richard.”
“A bait?” repeated Richard vaguely.
Henry shrugged impatiently at his density. “You—battering at the walls of Jerusalem. And Ann—here.”
But Richard only stared at him across the smoke. “By Heaven, Henry, you don’t really believe that poisonous old scandal, do you?”
“Didn’t she show a pretty venom when I suggested that she had no cause to love the fair Rosamund? Hoped I’d die young because I’ve the wit to see things.”
“You’d see mud on poor old Becket’s shrine!” muttered Richard. But clearly the old rumour had been bothering him.
“Well, there’s no particular virtue in being entirely devoid of subtlety. It leaves you straightforward fellows so defenceless. Why, even Robin says it shamed his nice Saxon susceptibilities to see Norman morality making such a fool of you!”
“Robin said that ?”
“Funny that a peasant’s words should always have more power than mine to move you!” remarked Henry with bitterness.
“This time they’ll move me to the King!” swore Richard, always dangerously swift to act on an emotion.
With an agility usually camouflaged by a show of elegant indolence, Henry sprang to bar his brother’s way. “Don’t be an idiot! You daren’t disturb him at his prayers.”
The word ‘dare’ was always a goad to Richard. “What better time to get the truth?” he snapped.
Henry had not meant to provoke him into doing something to his own detriment. Ann was not worth it. “Does it matter so much?” he temporised. “I was only half serious—”
But because Robin had minded, the truth seemed to matter urgently.
Henry spread both arms across the door. “Remember, Dickon, even when we have taken up arms against him, the King always wins!” he warned, using—in his rare sincerity—his brother’s boyhood name.
But Richard had out-grown submission and bade fair to become a better soldier than any of them. “Well see,” he said, shoving him aside.
For good or ill someone had forgotten to shoot the bolt. It yielded to Richard’s shoulder so that he almost stumbled into the room. And what the two of them saw set an end to all need for speculation. It gave them their fill of truth. By the tall sconces at the foot of the bed stood the King, with Ann of France in his arms.
Filigree fragile she looked against his powerful breast, the torch light making a raven river of her unbound hair. For a full moment of loathing Richard watched her. Her head was flung back in laughter—malicious laughter, at his expense. “But you are clever—clever—to let him go on his old crusade—” As the door swung inwards, letting the chink of light widen to the whole intimate scene, her caressing voice came softly across the bedchamber. And then, suddenly, she was tensely aware of them. Aware of Henry, looking over his brother’s shoulder with a contemptuous sneer. But most horribly aware of Richard, powerful and handsome, with hatred growing in his fierce eyes.
More slowly, warned from his ardour by her unresponsive body, the King himself became aware. He turned and saw them, and his embrace slid from her. “More of your insolence!” he stammered.
“More of your Rosamunds!” shouted Richard hoarsely.
Immobile, each chained by intensity of emotion, they held the moment of stark drama. Richard arrested on the threshold, his hands still clutching the door jamb as if their strength must be restrained from murder; the girl drawing back with trembling fingers pressed to her mouth, her august lover shrunken and silent; Henry, alone unscathed, turned fastidiously from the ugly discovery
Chapter Six
Henry lounged back to the hearth, shoving the sleeping hound aside and tipping himself backwards in the chair his father had just vacated. “The old fox is still too cunning for us both,” he said, watching a spiral of smoke ascend to a louvre hidden in the blackened rafters. “He threw you a cunning bait, Richard.”
“A bait?” repeated Richard vaguely.
Henry shrugged impatiently at his density. “You—battering at the walls of Jerusalem. And Ann—here.”
But Richard only stared at him across the smoke. “By Heaven, Henry, you don’t really believe that poisonous old scandal, do you?”
“Didn’t she show a pretty venom when I suggested that she had no cause to love the fair Rosamund? Hoped I’d die young because I’ve the wit to see things.”
“You’d see mud on poor old Becket’s shrine!” muttered Richard. But clearly the old rumour had been bothering him.
“Well, there’s no particular virtue in being entirely devoid of subtlety. It leaves you straightforward fellows so defenceless. Why, even Robin says it shamed his nice Saxon susceptibilities to see Norman morality making such a fool of you!”
“Robin said that ?”
“Funny that a peasant’s words should always have more power than mine to move you!” remarked Henry with bitterness.
“This time they’ll move me to the King!” swore Richard, always dangerously swift to act on an emotion.
With an agility usually camouflaged by a show of elegant indolence, Henry sprang to bar his brother’s way. “Don’t be an idiot! You daren’t disturb him at his prayers.”
The word ‘dare’ was always a goad to Richard. “What better time to get the truth?” he snapped.
Henry had not meant to provoke him into doing something to his own detriment. Ann was not worth it. “Does it matter so much?” he temporised. “I was only half serious—”
But because Robin had minded, the truth seemed to matter urgently.
Henry spread both arms across the door. “Remember, Dickon, even when we have taken up arms against him, the King always wins!” he warned, using—in his rare sincerity—his brother’s boyhood name.
But Richard had out-grown submission and bade fair to become a better soldier than any of them. “Well see,” he said, shoving him aside.
For good or ill someone had forgotten to shoot the bolt. It yielded to Richard’s shoulder so that he almost stumbled into the room. And what the two of them saw set an end to all need for speculation. It gave them their fill of truth. By the tall sconces at the foot of the bed stood the King, with Ann of France in his arms.
Filigree fragile she looked against his powerful breast, the torch light making a raven river of her unbound hair. For a full moment of loathing Richard watched her. Her head was flung back in laughter—malicious laughter, at his expense. “But you are clever—clever—to let him go on his old crusade—” As the door swung inwards, letting the chink of light widen to the whole intimate scene, her caressing voice came softly across the bedchamber. And then, suddenly, she was tensely aware of them. Aware of Henry, looking over his brother’s shoulder with a contemptuous sneer. But most horribly aware of Richard, powerful and handsome, with hatred growing in his fierce eyes.
More slowly, warned from his ardour by her unresponsive body, the King himself became aware. He turned and saw them, and his embrace slid from her. “More of your insolence!” he stammered.
“More of your Rosamunds!” shouted Richard hoarsely.
Immobile, each chained by intensity of emotion, they held the moment of stark drama. Richard arrested on the threshold, his hands still clutching the door jamb as if their strength must be restrained from murder; the girl drawing back with trembling fingers pressed to her mouth, her august lover shrunken and silent; Henry, alone unscathed, turned fastidiously from the ugly discovery
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