The Splendid Hour by Kathryn Le Veque
CHAPTER ONE
Hollyhock House
London seat of the House of de Winter
There were two distinct sides.
Christopher de Lohr, the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, was sitting on one side of an enormous table that stretched from one end of an equally enormous chamber to the other. With him were many rebel warlords, including the men they called “The Northerners”. These were warlords from Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Cumbria, powerful men who held the borderlands between Scotland and England. They were also the warlords that were the most opposed King John and his rule. Being far from London and the politics therein, they were almost in their own world up in the wilds of the north and they deeply resented a king that no one could stand. In truth, many of them owed debts to the king, so there were some financial issues, as well.
But that didn’t make their stance any less dangerous.
Three months earlier, the rebel warlords of England as a collective whole had forced King John to sign a document known as the Magna Carta. It was a long and complicated document outlining their grievances and demanding concessions from a monarch who had thus far in his reign been at odds with most of the men who were supposed to be loyal to him. The Magna Carta was a last-ditch effort to force John into behaving as if his vassals meant something to him and were not, in fact, his enemies. It was an attempt to corral a king and force him to behave fairly, for not in the entire history of England to this point had a monarch behaved with such willful deceit, corruption, and selfish ambition.
The Magna Carta had been the rebel warlords’ attempt to exact fair and equitable treatment from the man they so freely hated.
But it had been a battle – literally.
Even now, the warlords opposed to the king held London. They had captured it in the siege of London earlier in the year and although the terms of the Magna Carta had called for them to surrender the city, three months later, they still occupied London and controlled it. That was why the king had come – tensions, three months after the signing, were not any better.
Something had to give.
The gathering of the king and his warlords was being held in the home of Daveigh de Winter. His father, Hugh the Elder, had passed away the year before, leaving Daveigh head of the house. This wasn’t the larger group of barons who rebelled against the king, but a smaller and more powerful core. It was the only neutral territory that they would agree upon even though the House of de Winter was siding with the king in this matter. It wasn’t that they agreed with John or had any particular love for him – it was simply that, without fail, the House of de Winter supported the king. It always had, it always would.
It was their legacy.
Some warlords even referred to de Winter as the “royal army”. Daveigh and the de Winter war machine was one of the most powerful armies in all of England and a close friend and ally of Christopher de Lohr, who was on the opposite side of the table this day. It was the only time in Christopher’s and Daveigh’s lifetimes that they had been on opposite sides.
In fact, it was the first time that many of them had been on opposite sides but, above all, love and friendship held steady. Even if Christopher would not fight for John, he would not take a stand against Daveigh. It made for an incredibly complex and sad situation because, once, Christopher had been the right hand of King Richard. There had always been an extremely complicated relationship between Christopher and John because of it. More than de Winter even, the House of de Lohr represented the Crown.
But no longer.
John was aware of this. He had arrived just before the nooning meal, escorted by de Winter and royal household troops. The de Winter troops were led by Bric MacRohan, an Irish legacy knight who hated John more than anyone in England, so to see him riding escort for the king was truly something to witness. Bric was joined by the House of de Nerra, the hereditary Itinerant Justices of Hampshire, including Cullen de Nerra, who was very much part of William Marshal’s stable of agents. But Cullen’s father, Val de Nerra, was the current Itinerant Justice, an appointment that came straight from the king. Were Val to side with the rebels, he would undoubtedly lose his position and everything else that went with it, which made for a difficult decision on Val’s behalf. He very much allied himself with de Lohr and the rest of them, but he wasn’t willing to jeopardize his legacy.
There was a good deal of alcohol flowing on this day and even at this early hour, it wasn’t watered down. It was full strength because the men in that chamber were going to need the reinforcement for what they were about to discuss. No one was happy, on either side, so much like Runnymede and the signing of the Magna Carta, this meeting had the potential to blow up.
The stronger the alcohol, the more fortified the man.
Christopher was sitting with his brother, David, the Earl of Canterbury, along with his allies, men who had fought under William Marshal for many years. Edward de Wolfe, Earl of Wolverhampton, was one of the most important, followed by Bentley de Vaston, Duke of Savernake. The Earl of East Anglia, Talus du Reims was present along with his eldest son and heir, Dashiell du Reims, who used to serve Savernake.
And then, there were “The Northerners” – Ajax de Velt, the warrior known as The Dark Lord, perhaps the most feared warlord in all of England, and his son’s father-in-law Alastor de Bourne of Castle Keld. The de Bournes were descended from the Kings of Northumbria. Juston de Royans, a mentor to many of the men at the table, had a place of honor next to Christopher, along with Caius d’Avignon, Lord Hawkstone and commander of Richmond Castle. Gilbert d’Umfraville, Lord of Prudhoe Castle was sitting towards the end of the table along with Maxton of Loxbeare, one of William Marshal’s premier assassins.
But the last Northerner baron in the room was perhaps the most legendary of all. A man who had gone to The Levant with Christopher, David, and many other legendary knights, a man who was as mysterious as he was deadly, but always in support of Christopher. Marcus Burton, Lord Somerhill and Dunnington, usually spent all of his time in the north and although he allied with William Marshal, he was considered a retired Executioner Knight. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looked upon with reverence and awe. Marcus, Christopher, and John had a long and sometimes violent association.
Having the three of them in the room was like looking at history repeating itself.
The sides of the table were lining up with one notable absence – William Marshal himself. Christopher passed a questioning expression across the table to Daveigh, who lifted his shoulders slightly. The Marshal was supposed to be in attendance, but still hadn’t arrived. However, unwelcome men who had arrived were Peter des Roches, a man recently appointed the king’s Justiciar whom the warlords detested, and several of John’s personal guard, men who had served alongside John’s greatest guard, Sean de Lara, until Sean’s fall from grace earlier that year.
Sean had been one of William Marshal’s premier spies in the battle to keep John on an even keel and for nine years, he’d performed flawlessly until his cover was blown. Even now, he was recovering from near-mortal wounds received in the siege of London and Christopher knew his counsel would be sorely missed. If anyone knew John, it was Sean de Lara.
But they were going to get along without him.
“Good lords, I am sure you know that our king is a busy man and that you respect his need to be brief in this meeting,” Peter des Roches began in his heavy French accent. “If you are agreeable, we shall come straight to the point.”
Christopher looked at a man he hated a great deal. Peter was not English, but French by birth, and was now in a position of extreme power in the court of the king. Peter was arrogant, reckless, and calculating, and he hated the English with a passion. He rubbed nearly every warlord in England the wrong way. For a Frenchman to have such power in the English court was an insult to Englishmen everywhere. Christopher’s gaze lingered on the man for a moment before addressing John directly.
“Your Grace, we are agreeable to this meeting, but not with that trained dog as a mediator,” he said. “Remove him and let de Winter mediate.”
Des Roches flared. “Espèce de bâtard arrogant,” he hissed. “Comment oses-tu…!”
David, always quick to temper and especially when it came to his brother, slammed his gloved hand on the table to shut des Roches up. “Speak to him like that again and I will cut your vile tongue out of your filthy mouth,” he growled, leaping to his feet. “No one will weep over one less French pig in the world.”
Des Roches began to shout, which brought John’s bodyguards to the table. David was already on his feet, but Maxton of Loxbeare shoved the Earl of Teviot out of the way in order to get across the table to John’s henchmen. Caius d’Avignon, a massive man of enormous power, rushed to Maxton’s side as Christopher himself leapt up to pull his brother back over the table. Juston and Talus were pulling on Maxton and Caius until Marcus Burton bolted to his feet and gave a good yank on Maxton, pulling the man back from the brink of hand-to-hand combat in Daveigh’s hall. They all saw, very clearly, when Bric, standing with John’s men, grabbed des Roches by the neck and yanked the man back so hard that he nearly snapped his neck.
That was no friendly grasp from the fiery Irishman.
It was Marcus who finally threw up his hands and boomed.
“Enough!” he shouted, immediately silencing the chamber. He pointed at Maxton and Caius. “Sit down, both of you. David, if you cannot behave, I will personally escort you outside. And you – des Roches – insult the Earl of Hereford and Worcester again and I will turn every man at the table loose on you and I can promise that you will leave your share of blood on the floor. Mayhap they didn’t teach you manners in Paris, but it is extremely bad form to insult a warlord who could overrun your holdings, kill your family, and destroy everything you know. If you value your life, you’ll keep your damnable mouth shut. Is this in any way unclear?”
Des Roches was a proud man who, most of the time, didn’t know how to shut up. He took pride in having command over English warlords, wielding John’s power like a dagger. He was rubbing his neck where Bric had grabbed him, his mouth working furiously, but the king put up a hand to him, silencing him. Even John knew how badly this could go if his courtiers misbehaved. With des Roches silent, he looked to Christopher.
“I do not think we need a mediator, de Lohr,” he said. “You and I have known each other a very long time. This is not the first time we have been at opposite sides of the table and it will not be the last.”
Christopher was regaining his seat. “Nay, Your Grace,” he said. “Let us come to the point before we destroy Daveigh’s chamber.”
John opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when Peter and his brother-in-law, Alexander de Sherrington, entered the hall followed by William Marshal and Pandulf Verraccio, the papal legate and representative of the pope in London. While Peter went to stand on his father’s side of the table, William lingered at the edge of the table with Pandulf.
Right in the middle.
Everyone was looking at William and the papal legate with confusion. It wasn’t unusual for William to be here, as he had been expected to be present during this discourse, but it was well known that John and the Catholic Church had a contentious relationship. No one had any idea why the papal legate had come – at least, Christopher and his allies didn’t. They were looking at William as if the man’s expression might give them a clue, but William’s expression was like stone. He wasn’t sitting on John’s side of the table, but he wasn’t with Christopher, either. He simply stood at the end of the table, looking at everyone involved.
“I hope I am not too terribly late,” he said, then looked to John. “I have brought Verraccio, as you requested.”
John perked up in his seat, motioning the papal legate forward. “Excellent,” he said. “Your timing could not be better. I have a feeling that your message to my warlords will end this conference quickly, so please speak freely to them. You have my permission.”
Clad in heavy ecclesiastic robes of a dark brown color that were fine and silk-lined, the papal legate looked every inch the representative of Rome. Pandulf was a short man, thin and fragile like a woman, but with dark, intense eyes that conveyed the man’s power and intelligence.
Christopher knew of the man; they all did. He was very sharp and reasonably fair, not at all like the sometimes political-minded clergy that held high positions in the church. Therefore, they had some trust in him, as much as there could be with a papal representative, but Christopher and the others were more than curious about the man’s presence and now, evidently, with a message he bore. What was even more disturbing is that The Marshal, with no great love for the church, had brought the man.
Something told Christopher and the rest of them to be on their guard.
“My lords,” Pandulf spoke in a heavy Italian accent. “As you have heard, I was summoned by your king to deliver a message from the Holy Father.”
Christopher held up a hand. “No offense, but I find it extremely unlikely that the pope would have any message for the warlords of England,” he said. “It is not as if the king and the pope are bedfellows, so tell us from the beginning why you are here and make clear the origins of the message you bear.”
Pandulf wasn’t offended because he knew de Lohr. The man was fair and likeable, most of the time, but his contention with John was well known. He wanted truth, not the twisted stuff John sometimes came up with, and was making that very clear. Any royal meddling with this situation would only make it worse.
“I understand, my lord,” he said. “I have been in England for several years. I am well aware of the relationship between the king and most of his barons, so I assume you would at least give me respect in that regard.”
Christopher, and most of the others seated with him, nodded. “Of course,” Christopher said. “Continue, please.”
Pandulf eyed John before returning his gaze to the warlords. “You are correct when you state the obvious, my lord,” he said. “Our Holy Father and the king are not exactly bedfellows. Many is the time I have had to give the king absolution for something he has done, so I am not his bedfellow, either. Will you acknowledge this?”
Christopher and the others nodded. “Without question,” Christopher said.
Pandulf nodded shortly. “Good,” he said. “My duty is to God and to the church, in that order, so the message I bear has no bearing upon the king, but upon the rightness of your rebellion against the lawful king. Nay, I do not simplify this situation by calling it simply a ‘rebellion’. It goes deeper than that and I am aware, but rebellion is the closest word to the situation that I can choose. I pray your forgiveness if it is not the right one, but for the sake of argument, I shall use it.”
No one seemed to give him much of a reaction. They were listening closely, so he continued.
“Then let me come to the point,” he said, fixed on Christopher. “The king has declared himself a crusader, a warrior for God, which affords him papal protection. I received a missive from our Holy Father a few weeks ago instructing me to relay the following to you – as rebels against the rightful king’s rule of England, a man who has sworn his sword and army to God, any warlord resisting John’s rule shall be excommunicated from the church. Be advised that Stephen Langdon, the Archbishop of Canterbury, has been removed from his post because of his alliance to the rebellion. That was why I was late to this meeting, my lords. Langdon was removed, as all of you shall be excommunicated if you do not swear your allegiance to the king and surrender London, which you still hold for your rebellion. Our Holy Father considers your actions against the king illegal and unjust, as the king swears that he was forced to agree to your terms. He did not agree willingly. He has therefore appealed to the Holy Father for assistance and he shall receive all Rome can do for him in this matter.”
It was a shocking ultimatum, one that had not been expected. Though the pope had gotten involved in the signing of the Magna Carta somewhat, these revelations on what John had done, and the consequences with the church, were astonishing. John had made it well known throughout his reign that he disagreed with the church. There was no love lost there. So to hear what he had done in order to force the hand of the rebelling warlords… it was truly astonishing.
Christopher’s gaze never moved away from Pandulf.
“Nearly ever warlord in this chamber went on crusade,” he said evenly. “We were all warriors for God. Where is our support from a man we killed thousands for?”
“You are not the king.”
“The king never killed in the name of God,” Christopher snapped. “We did. The king only took a crusader’s oath to circumvent our opposition. You know this, Pandulf.”
Pandulf did, but he was in a bad spot. Pandulf eyed John, who was gazing at him expectantly, knowing the pope was on his side. For Pandulf, it was a sickening moment.
“I am afraid I cannot make any decisions, my lord,” he said. “I am only the messenger. You have until the autumn harvest to make your decision so that I may report your choice to the Holy Father. Until then, you are still honored members of the church, but only for now should your decision be otherwise.”
Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “Then let me make it plain to you and to the king so there is no question as to what will happen should we refuse your offer,” he said. “He loses our armies. He loses tens of thousands of men who would heed the call should it be needed – for example, for a crusade to The Levant to fight for Christendom. Hundreds of churches would lose their patrons. They cannot survive without their patrons and you know this to be true. My wife and I are patrons to a dozen churches along the Marches and all monetary support would be removed. Shall I go on?”
Pandulf knew the threat wasn’t an idle one. But he also knew he had a position to take and that was with the Holy Father. He had no choice. Slowly, he shook his head.
“It is not necessary, my lord,” he said. “I understand that such a move, for both factions, would be… devastating.”
John, who had been listening to the conversation, was incensed that Christopher and his allies hadn’t immediately cowered at the suggestion of excommunication. Pandulf had been his secret weapon in his battle against his barons, but they didn’t seem overly impressed by the threat and that outraged him.
“Do you understand that without the church’s support, you would have nothing, de Lohr?” he said, aghast. “You would be a man without an immortal soul. Your family, your children, would be excommunicated as well. You have young sons. They could not be knighted in the usual sense. One of your sons is here, now, in young Peter. Peter could not hope to marry an eligible woman from a good family with his father excommunicated, a rebel leader, a man to be scorned.”
Peter heard his name. Standing near The Marshal, he didn’t like the way the king was browbeating his father. His father was the most righteous, decent man he knew and John’s bullying didn’t sit well with him. He opened his mouth to defend his father, but Alexander was standing next to him. He must have sensed Peter’s inclination to respond given he was the subject of discussion and the moment he flinched, he felt Alexander’s grip on his arm, pulling him away from the table.
Sherry’s instincts were better than most.
Even so, neither Christopher nor John noticed. They were still focused on each other.
“I will be no more scorned than a disfavored king,” Christopher rumbled threateningly. “In fact, you risk making all of us martyrs against an unjust king. At the moment, you only have the animosity of your warlords, but if you excommunicate us, you’ll have the animosity of your people as well. Therefore, we will survive. We always do, so if your threat is a real one, be prepared for the consequences.”
John was genuinely stricken that the threat from the pope hadn’t immediately turned the tides of the meeting. The warlords were sticking together. But there was someone who hadn’t entirely sided with them and his gaze moved to William Marshal, standing at the edge of the table.
John and William had suffered through a tumultuous relationship over the years. John knew that William ran the most elite spy ring the world had ever seen. At times, that ring had supported the king but at other times, it had been against him. It had been an odd relationship between the king and The Marshal’s spies, preserving the monarchy of a king they disliked. John knew that most of the men at the table were part of that ring, or at least had been at one point. Christopher and William Marshal were as thick as thieves even if they were on opposite sides this time, but the situation was salvageable, in John’s opinion.
He would make it so.
His attention moved to Daveigh.
“I must speak to Pembroke alone,” he said, using William Marshal’s official title as the Earl of Pembroke. “Show us a private chamber.”
Daveigh did and everyone watched with curiosity and trepidation as John and William disappeared into a nearby solar. That had Christopher on his feet, pulling the men at the table with him. Instead of remaining indoors, they went outside, into the wide street that fronted Hollyhock House. It was a major thoroughfare through London, just south of Westminster Palace, now mostly blocked off with the escorts of the men attending the meeting.
It was the safest place they could be at the moment.
“Thank God,” Marcus muttered as he came up behind Christopher, who had stopped in the middle of the street. “I was starting to suffocate in there. Any air John breathes is like poison.”
As Christopher nodded, David piped up. “Why are we out here?” he said.
Christopher wiped a weary hand over his face. “Because we have more privacy out here than we did in that chamber,” he said. “Anything I say to you, someone is going to overhear, but out here – there is less chance of anyone from John’s horde hearing us.”
“Even The Marshal?” Maxton muttered softly.
Christopher looked at Maxton. “Even The Marshal.”
Maxton shrugged.
Christopher’s gaze lingered on the man he shared a semi-like/hate relationship with and had for many years. They were both dominant males, both thinking and acting very much alike. Maxton had always thought Christopher was too arrogant for his own good and Christopher simply didn’t have any love for Maxton and his brooding ways. They butted heads frequently on many issues but, oddly enough, they would both kill or die for each other, hence Maxton’s charge over the feasting table to get at des Roches. Christopher would acknowledge that at some point, but not now.
He had more important things on his mind.
He looked around the circle of men, now gathering out in the middle of the street – Wolverhampton, Teviot, Ajax de Velt, East Anglia, Caius, Maxton, Savernake, d’Umfraville, de Bourne, Canterbury, Dashiell, Sherry, Peter, and Marcus. So many fine, trusting, seasoned warriors.
He looked directly to the older men.
Men who had forged a nation, who were legendary in English history, and warlords the likes of which would probably never be seen again. The first one he focused on was Ajax, his old and dear friend. De Velt was the original barbaric knight, The Dark Lord who still struck fear into the hearts of men. He was quite elderly as far as fighting men went, but no less fearsome.
The man was truly ageless.
“Jax,” Christopher addressed him. They had long since gotten past any formalities between them. “In all of the brutal things you did in the past, did you ever run up against the church excommunicating you?”
Jax fought off a grin. “They were too frightened to,” he said, watching the others snort. “In a serious answer to your question, nay, I was never excommunicated, or if I was, I did not know about it.”
“Then what are your thoughts on this?”
Jax glanced at the older men around him – Juston de Royans was one. They were longtime acquaintances, only allies in their later years, but the respect of decades of experience was there. He glanced at Talus du Reims, too, whose father had fought during the anarchy between Stephen and Matilda those years ago. Older men with a good deal of knowledge, who had dealt with John’s father, Henry, at length. John’s father, who had upended the monarchy from time to time.
His attention returned to Christopher.
“It is my sense that John’s decisions are often based on his own selfish wants, of course, but also on spur of the moment judgments,” he said. “He has gone to the Holy Father to side with him in the hopes of forcing you into submission and from the expression on his face, he was surprised when you did not immediately capitulate.”
“He’ll push the excommunication,” Juston said as Jax nodded in agreement. “He’ll make sure we’re all excommunicated but he will not realize the long-term results until well after the fact. Excommunication changes nothing. Most of us have our own chapels and we will worship in our own way, so it changes nothing except John will have divided this country more than it already is. Excommunication gains him nothing, but he does not see that now.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “He’s using it as a threat.”
“A threat that will turn on him in the end.”
“But he is right in one way,” Marcus said quietly. “It will complicate things for our families, our children, our relatives. My eldest daughters are already married, but I have five sons and two more daughters who will need spouses someday. It will lessen the choices if we are excommunicated.”
Christopher looked at the man who had been his best friend for many years. “And you cannot find enough attractive choices between all of us who will be excommunicated?”
Marcus scowled, but it was with humor. “I do not want any de Lohr offspring tainting my bloodlines,” he said. “De Royans, either. Pah.”
The men were chuckling. “That is good,” Christopher said. “Because I certainly do not want any of yours, either. I’d rather my children marry puppies. In any case, know that I, for one, do not intend to negotiate or submit to a threat from a man who corrupts his holy power as he sees fit. Pandulf is a fair man, but his superior is not. The Holy Father can excommunicate me if he wishes to, for it will not change my mind about the rightness of what we are doing and the goals we intend to accomplish.”
“Are you certain there is not a grudge against the king that is clouding your judgment?”
The question came from Talus du Reims, an excellent warrior from a long line of warriors. He and Christopher had known each other for many years, including the history of Christopher’s relationship with the royal family.
But Christopher simply shook his head.
“There is no grudge, I assure you,” he said. “There never has been. I was Richard’s champion, once, but that was a very long time ago. John was a spoiled, conniving prince at the time and he is a spoiled, conniving king now. That has not changed. But I tell you now that any sense of surrender to him will be a sign of weakness and, at this moment, we do not need to be viewed as weak. If we do not stand together, mark my words, John will pick us off one at a time.”
