Читать книгу Below the Salt - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 33

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The years of Richard’s early boyhood had been uneventful and even humdrum. Nothing had happened to take him more than a few miles at any time from the narrow confines of his father’s few acres. Then, without any warning, the pattern of his life was upset by a rapid succession of events.

Over in France the wars between King Harry and his rebellious sons had been going on almost without interruption. Inevitably the old man’s spirit was broken and, beaten to his knees, he died in great mortification of spirit. Richard succeeded him and came to London, full of plans for the great army he was going to lead to the Crusades. A wave of religious exultation swept over England. Men were seen everywhere displaying the cross as a sign that they had enlisted with the new king. Fiery priests preached in every town and village, exhorting men to go. Great bells were heard tolling in the skies and miracles were reported from shrines where the bones of martyrs lay. The common people of England marched and sang and prayed with an enthusiasm which nothing could check.

But among the leaders of the nation the enthusiasm began to wear a little thin. Richard, it developed, was going to extraordinary lengths in raising money for his army. He was selling everything he owned. The royal castles were being disposed of right and left for very large sums (and later they were taken back by the king without indemnity to the unlucky buyers), the offices of Church and State were being auctioned off to the highest bidders, the decisions of the courts were being awarded to the litigants who paid the most substantial bribes.

“By God’s feet!” this fine king was reported to have said. “I would sell London itself could I but find a purchaser rich enough to pay me the price!”

One day the new king had a discussion with his chancellor, one William de Longchamp. The latter, a small man with a crooked back, had seemed a curious choice to everyone in England for so high and honorable a post, although the wonder ceased when it became known that he had paid the king three thousand pounds for the office he held. He was proving himself an adept instrument in the raising of money by dishonest means.

King Richard was sitting cross-legged in his chair, a list of names in his hand. He was a true Plantagenet, golden of hair, blue and handsome of eye, the possessor of a gladiator’s shoulders and chest, and of hands made to grasp all the fair wide provinces and the immense power his father had left him.

“Gilles de Baudene,” said the young monarch, reading from the list. “I know a little of him. A contemptible fellow. A cur, a coward, and a skimp cheese. If he doesn’t take the cross, we must find reason for putting a fine on him.”

The chancellor looked slyly at the king. “I think, sire,” he said, “we can make better use of this man than putting a sword into his hand. He is not a soldier but he is a claimant for the Baudene landholdings.”

“Hah!” said Richard. “That is different.”

“He is a haggler over pennies but he won’t hesitate to pay a large sum for a decision in his favor. I have discussed the point with him. How he wriggled, like a fox caught in a trap! But he agreed to go to the moneylenders.”

“Drive a hard bargain with him, Sir Chancellor.”

When word came to the priory that the long-deferred decision about the Baudene land had at last been handed down, Edward the Saxon led his son out to sit on the tumbled stones of the gatehouse where no one could hear what was said. They presented a singular contrast now. The boy was growing into a tall youth, with straight back and limbs and a fine spread of shoulder. Edward the Saxon, once so strong himself, had been aging rapidly. He had developed a condition which slowed his step and hollowed his cheeks. He seldom went out these days. His bow hung beside the chimney and the arrows rusted in the quiver.

“My son,” he said, “we have lost!”

“Do you mean,” asked the boy, his face becoming very still and pale, “that the suit has been settled? That it has gone against us?”

Edward the Saxon nodded. “The Norman gets everything. The information which comes to me is that he paid so large a bribe that it will take him many years to clear his debt to the moneylenders. Still, he has won. The land is his. And all the honors.” Here his face flamed with sudden passion. “What else could we expect? A Norman king, a Norman court, a Norman suitor! There is no longer any justice in England.”

The boy’s reactions to this bad news were curiously divided. Through his undivulged friendship with Alain of Casserlie, he had been gaining a sense of pride in the blood he had inherited from his beautiful Norman mother. The Normans, as Alain put it, were the rulers of the country, they were brave and chivalrous, and they went to the wars and won themselves much fame and glory. Why shouldn’t he be proud that his mother had been Norman? Why should he not look forward to the day when he himself might wear the gold spurs of knighthood? Why should he not regard King Richard as the greatest of all warriors, a king for whom he should be glad to lay down his life?

But the fact of the decision was not easy to swallow. He got slowly to his feet and his eyes turned to the west where the sun was sinking under the tops of the trees which marked the boundary of the land still belonging to them. “Then,” he said with a sweep of his hand, “this is all I shall ever have?”

His father rose also and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This,” he said, “and a heritage of pride which has always seemed to me more important than any possessions. There is, moreover, a trust. When the time comes, my son, I shall have something to tell you. Something that was told me by my father when he knew he was going to die. It may not be long now before I feel that the trust should be placed in your hands.”

They walked slowly together across the untended sward. The last narrow rim of the sun vanished behind the cover of the trees and the air seemed of a sudden to become cold. The thin shoulders of Edward the Saxon drew together in a shudder.

“You have a new friend, my son,” he said.

Richard paused and gave a startled look at his father. “It is true,” he answered. “I have a friend. I have such a liking for him that, if he were to appear now, I would feel as though the sun had changed its course and come up again over those trees.”

“He is the son of the Butcher of Casserlie.”

“How did you know?”

“Bits of information come to my ears. I have known of this for some time.”

“Alain is brave and fine, and a true friend!” cried the boy. “I sometimes think we must be like David and Jonathan.”

“My boy, it is good for you to have a friend of your own age and station. But it was not good that you didn’t tell me.” They had reached the door and Edward opened it with a hand which trembled. “I suspect that I have little time left to enjoy your company and your confidence. I have no fault to find with you, my fine son, but perhaps a word of advice would not be amiss. Do not accept everything your friend Alain says without question. He has nothing but Norman blood in his veins and his father holds land today which was stolen from your forefathers. Does the Butcher know of the friendship between you?”

“I think not, Father.”

“Then this infamous decision may make no difference. Had Roger de Casserlie known, he would have judged you an unfit companion for his son.”

There was a small fire burning on the hearth. Edward turned toward it eagerly. He sat down and hunched himself over the blaze. He had been losing his teeth and this had brought the tip of his nose close to what had once been the strong line of his jaw.

“Now that our last hope has gone,” he said in a low tone, “there is little to live for. I think, Richard, that the time is close when I must transfer that trust to you.”