I could understand Richard’s point of view. I should not care to plough the same furrow as my father, but marriage for kings is an act of statecraft and his fastidiousness made things even more difficult with King Philip, who had been urging Richard to proceed with the marriage to Alice. Richard politely demurred and as time went by this became the biggest cause of the ill-feeling between the two monarchs. Now the news was out that Richard was bringing another bride to Sicily, a Navarrese princess. And King Philip now declared that he was furious at his family’s humiliation at the hands of not one but two kings of England.
As usual, there was an easy way to mollify the proud French king. Richard sent him a gift of ten thousand marks in gold when his betrothal to Berengaria was publically announced, and our King had the good sense not to publically flaunt the fact that his bride-to-be, accompanied by his mother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, was en route to Sicily.
However, Philip had still grumpily declared his intention to leave with all his troops for the Holy Land at the end of March so that he would not be present when this affront to his sister’s honour arrived in Messina.
King Philip of France and four great ships sailed slowly out of Messina harbour on the last day of the month, to the cheers of Richard’s entire army, which had been assembled by direct order of the King to wish their brother warriors of Christ a fair voyage to Outremer. The next day a small but richly appointed ship arrived, discreetly bearing Princess Berengaria of Navarre, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine — and my old friend and erstwhile musical mentor Bernard de Sezanne.
I had not seen Bernard for a year and a half, and while I had grown taller and filled out my frame, he had not changed in the slightest except that, as Queen Eleanor’s much admired trouvere, he was far more richly dressed than when he had been my musical teacher in our outlaw days. In fact, he was something of a popinjay in crimson and green hose and a crimson and gold embroidered tunic. He wore a magnificent velvet hat that looked like a large loaf of Sicilian bread with a long sweeping feather that arced out of the side. Beside him in my drab brownish-green tunic and hose, and travel-worn grey hood, I felt dowdy and pedestrian.
I took him to The Lamb, the tavern in Messina where I regularly met with the other trouveres. Having delivered Berengaria safely, Bernard and his mistress Queen Eleanor were leaving Sicily in a day or two to return to England, and I wanted a chance to talk to him before they left. The tavern provided the two things I knew that Bernard would require for a successful evening: large quantities of wine and a musically appreciative company. Little John was on duty with Robin and so I was at liberty. Bernard and I got to the tavern early; the sun had not yet sunk below the mountains of the west, so I could be sure of some time alone with my friend before the rest of the pack of musicians arrived.
‘Well, young Alan,’ said Bernard, smiling kindly, ‘you look more like a rough soldier every time I see you. I hope you have not given up the musical life.’ He was looking at the sword and long poniard that hung habitually from two thick leather belts at my waist. I assured him that I had not, and I could not help but boast a little about my popularity with King Richard, and his respect for me as a singer. ‘So does life in this great swarm of would-be martyrs suit you?’ he asked. I allowed that it did, and told him of my new-found prowess with the lance; I was in the middle of a tale of heroic success at charging the quintain when I noticed that his eyes had become dull and glazed, and swiftly ended the story, ordered more wine and changed the subject. ‘And how are things in England?’ I asked.
‘They are not good, Alan, to be honest, not good at all,’ he said, and sighed. His demeanor was sad but I sensed something; perhaps a small amount of joy at being able to deliver bad news. ‘The country is deeply uneasy with Richard away; each baron is fortifying his castle, the towns are building strong walls. The Welsh are making trouble, too. But the main problem is that little Willie Longchamp, the King’s Justiciar, is loathed by absolutely everybody and he can’t seem to control his own household, let alone the country. He is an awful little man — no music in him at all — but Richard did make him Justiciar and you would think he would therefore be able to command some respect; but it is seems not and his authority is now being seriously challenged by — guess who? — Richard’s royal, if not loyal, brother John.
‘Our stay-at-home princeling now swanks about the land in a quite preposterous regal style, with his own justicar, his own royal court, a chancellor, royal seals, everything — and his servants talk openly about John being the next king, if Richard were to die while on this pilgrimage. It’s quite ridiculous when everybody knows that little Prince Arthur is Richard’s acknowledged heir. It’s not good, Alan, with the King out of the country, there’s no one to keep these ambitious little toads in line…’ and he broke into a line of poetry: ‘As the earth grows dark when the sun departs,
So a kingdom is diminished by the absence of its king.’
He took a long swig of wine and wiped his mouth on his gorgeous crimson sleeve. ‘And I have worse news,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I went to see the Countess of Locksley to pick up a letter she wanted me to give to Robin, and I found her in a terrible way. Oh, she’s fine in her health and looks, and she keeps up a noble front, but she’s very unhappy.’
He paused and I realised that he had been waiting to deliver this piece of bad news since he met me at the harbour side.
‘Go on,’ I said neutrally.
‘Well, there are these dreadful rumours about her, which are being spread by that snake Ralph Murdac, appalling rumours, the worst kind, and totally untrue, of course, but they worry her and she fears they will reach Robin’s ears.’ He was only just managing to conceal his glee at having such a delicious piece of gossip to impart.
I leaned into him, frowning: ‘What rumours,’ I said. I could feel myself growing angry. ‘What rumours, Bernard?’ I said louder in a hard tone of voice. Bernard looked at me. ‘Don’t get upset with me, Alan, I’m just the messenger, I’m not the one spreading them; I haven’t told a soul. But people are talking.’
I managed to control my temper. I was very fond of Marie-Anne, the Countess of Locksley; I had even believed myself to be in love with her for a while, and I did not like to have her name sullied by anyone. ‘What are they saying?’ I asked, trying for a more reasonable tone of voice. Bernard was Bernard, after all, my anger would not change him.
‘Well, don’t get upset, and don’t say you heard it from me, but people are saying that…’ he faltered for a few moments. But I said flatly: ‘Just tell me, Bernard.’ And finally, after much wriggling and prevarication, he did.
‘They are saying, Alan, and I am sure it is totally untrue, that the Countess was the lover of Ralph Murdac in the summer before last, and that the Countess’s son, Hugh, who is acknowledged as the Earl of Locksley’s heir, is actually Murdac’s flesh and blood.’ He sat back, having delivered this hammer blow, and watched for my reaction.