a bad one. The next move Henry made was to send more
messengers hastening out with a demand that hostages for the good behavior of
his barons be brought to him before the first of August.
Hard on the heels of this news, Richard Marshal arrived at
his sister’s house. He had come by the main road with only a few men-at-arms.
The small troop served the double purpose of making him inconspicuous and of
marking his “trust” in the king’s goodwill. Simon had missed him on the road,
but by chance they rode into London the same day and Simon arrived at
Cornwall’s house to ask whether Richard was there only an hour after he had
come.
Isabella had already told her brother of Adam’s suspicions,
but Richard only laughed and kissed her and called her a nervous goose. Thus,
when Simon’s name was brought to her, she bade her maidservant bring him into
Richard’s bedchamber, where he was soaking off the dirt and sweat of travel in
a tub.
“Tell him I am not making it up,” she cried, as Simon
stepped in and the servant closed the door behind him.
Simon bowed, a little embarrassed by the look of surprise on
Richard’s face. The Earl of Pembroke was a big man, as tall as Simon but
broader and heavier, his shoulders and arms seamed with the scars of combat.
The room was warm, redolent with the scent of the herbs Isabella had strewn in
the bath water. Somehow a sense of urgency and discussion of plots seemed out
of place. Although Simon was sure that danger existed and that Isabella’s
nervousness was justified, he felt his warning would sound ridiculous.
“My lord,” he said uneasily, “I am Simon de Vipont—”
“William’s squire! I remember you.”
“Simon, tell him! Make him believe it is dangerous to stay,”
Isabella repeated urgently.
“It is also dangerous to go,” Richard said, a little more
sharply. “Have sense, Isabella. If I am not here to answer this third summons,
Henry will have the right to call me a traitor. And I am not! I only want the
laws to be observed.”
“Then you want more than any man is likely to have, my
lord,” Simon said.
“That is a hard thing you have said,” Richard rejoined
cautiously. “I hope the bad response the king has had to his summonses may have
given him food for thought—”
“The wrong kind of thought,” Simon interrupted.
Richard sat more upright in the bath. “What are you talking
about?”
“You have not heard about Bassett’s land?”
“I know the king seized the manor at Compton on the excuse
that Bassett was de Burgh’s man and Compton was too close to Devizes where de
Burgh is imprisoned—”
“No. This is a new thing. Bassett was disseisined of
Upavon—”
“What? When?” Richard rose from the tub, splashing water in
all directions. Isabella hurried forward with a drying cloth, which he seized
from her and began to ply about his body hurriedly. “Why did you not tell me
this,” he said to her, “instead of that farrago about—” He stopped abruptly and
looked away from Isabella toward Simon.
“I thought you knew,” Isabella said, but Richard did not
look back at her.
“Tell me the whole,” he said to Simon.
By the time the story had been related, including Henry’s
reaction to Bassett’s attempt to obtain justice and the demand for hostages,
Richard was dressed and seated beside the empty hearth reflectively sipping a
cup of wine. Simon had remembered Geoffrey’s oft-repeated advice that too much
passion made the most solid fact sound suspect, so he had described the situation
more calmly than those who knew him would have expected. It was clear that his
temperate manner had convinced Pembroke.
“I am caught in a cleft stick,” Richard said bitterly, his
fine eyes bleak. “If I do not cry out against the king’s action and uphold
Bassett, I will not only violate what I believe to be right, but I will seem to
break faith with a long-time friend of our family. And if I do protest, I will
be playing into Henry’s
messengers hastening out with a demand that hostages for the good behavior of
his barons be brought to him before the first of August.
Hard on the heels of this news, Richard Marshal arrived at
his sister’s house. He had come by the main road with only a few men-at-arms.
The small troop served the double purpose of making him inconspicuous and of
marking his “trust” in the king’s goodwill. Simon had missed him on the road,
but by chance they rode into London the same day and Simon arrived at
Cornwall’s house to ask whether Richard was there only an hour after he had
come.
Isabella had already told her brother of Adam’s suspicions,
but Richard only laughed and kissed her and called her a nervous goose. Thus,
when Simon’s name was brought to her, she bade her maidservant bring him into
Richard’s bedchamber, where he was soaking off the dirt and sweat of travel in
a tub.
“Tell him I am not making it up,” she cried, as Simon
stepped in and the servant closed the door behind him.
Simon bowed, a little embarrassed by the look of surprise on
Richard’s face. The Earl of Pembroke was a big man, as tall as Simon but
broader and heavier, his shoulders and arms seamed with the scars of combat.
The room was warm, redolent with the scent of the herbs Isabella had strewn in
the bath water. Somehow a sense of urgency and discussion of plots seemed out
of place. Although Simon was sure that danger existed and that Isabella’s
nervousness was justified, he felt his warning would sound ridiculous.
“My lord,” he said uneasily, “I am Simon de Vipont—”
“William’s squire! I remember you.”
“Simon, tell him! Make him believe it is dangerous to stay,”
Isabella repeated urgently.
“It is also dangerous to go,” Richard said, a little more
sharply. “Have sense, Isabella. If I am not here to answer this third summons,
Henry will have the right to call me a traitor. And I am not! I only want the
laws to be observed.”
“Then you want more than any man is likely to have, my
lord,” Simon said.
“That is a hard thing you have said,” Richard rejoined
cautiously. “I hope the bad response the king has had to his summonses may have
given him food for thought—”
“The wrong kind of thought,” Simon interrupted.
Richard sat more upright in the bath. “What are you talking
about?”
“You have not heard about Bassett’s land?”
“I know the king seized the manor at Compton on the excuse
that Bassett was de Burgh’s man and Compton was too close to Devizes where de
Burgh is imprisoned—”
“No. This is a new thing. Bassett was disseisined of
Upavon—”
“What? When?” Richard rose from the tub, splashing water in
all directions. Isabella hurried forward with a drying cloth, which he seized
from her and began to ply about his body hurriedly. “Why did you not tell me
this,” he said to her, “instead of that farrago about—” He stopped abruptly and
looked away from Isabella toward Simon.
“I thought you knew,” Isabella said, but Richard did not
look back at her.
“Tell me the whole,” he said to Simon.
By the time the story had been related, including Henry’s
reaction to Bassett’s attempt to obtain justice and the demand for hostages,
Richard was dressed and seated beside the empty hearth reflectively sipping a
cup of wine. Simon had remembered Geoffrey’s oft-repeated advice that too much
passion made the most solid fact sound suspect, so he had described the situation
more calmly than those who knew him would have expected. It was clear that his
temperate manner had convinced Pembroke.
“I am caught in a cleft stick,” Richard said bitterly, his
fine eyes bleak. “If I do not cry out against the king’s action and uphold
Bassett, I will not only violate what I believe to be right, but I will seem to
break faith with a long-time friend of our family. And if I do protest, I will
be playing into Henry’s
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