notion seemed at the moment, would all that serenity soon pall? It was not likely he would ever find out. Turning from that, he wondered what fresh debacle awaited him this time.
At the gate to the White Tower he was admitted without delay and personally conducted by the porter to the entrance to the king’s private apartment, where his presence was announced by the chamberlain. Following a short interval, he was admitted.
“Oh, Flambard, it’s you,” said William, glancing up. He was stuffing the voluminous tail of his shirt into his too-tight breeches. Finishing the chore, he started towards the door. “At last.”
“I came as soon as I received your summons, Majesty. Forgive me for not anticipating your call.”
“Eh? Yes, well . . .” Red William looked at his chief advisor and tried to work out whether Flambard was mocking him. He could not tell, so let it go. “You’re here now and there’s work to do.”
“A pleasure, Sire.” He made a tight little bow that, perfected over years of service, had become little more than a slight nod of the head with a barely discernible bend at the waist. “Am I to know what has occasioned this summons, my lord?”
“It is all to do with that business in Elvile,” William said, pushing past the justiciar and bowling down the corridor which led to his audience rooms. “Remember all that ruck?”
“I seem to have a recollection, Sire. There was some trouble with one of the barons—de Braose, if I recall the incident correctly. You banished the baron and took the cantref under your authority—placed it in the care of some abbot or other, and a sheriff somebody.”
“You remember, good,” decided the king. “Then you can talk to him.”
“Talk to whom, Majesty, if I may ask?”
“That blasted abbot—he’s here. Been driven off his perch by bandits, apparently. Demanding an audience. Screaming the roof down.” The king stopped walking so abruptly that the cardinal almost collided with his squat, solid form. “Give him whatever he wants. No—whatever it takes to make him go away. I’m off to Normandie in a fortnight, and I cannot spare even a moment.”
“I understand, Highness,” replied the cardinal judiciously. “I will see what can be done.”
They continued on to the audience chamber, discussing the king’s proposed journey to Normandie, where he planned to meet with King Philip to challenge the French monarch’s increasingly flagrant incursions beyond the borders of the Vexin. “Philip is a low, craven ass. His trespasses will not be tolerated, hear?” said William as he pushed open the chamber door. “Ah! There you are.” This was spoken as if the king had spent the better part of the day in a harried search for the petitioner.
“My lord and majesty,” said the abbot, once again resplendent in a simple white satin robe and purple stole. “You honour your servant with your presence.”
William waved aside the flattery. “What is it you want? I was told it was a matter of some urgency. Speak, man, let’s get it done.”
“My lord,” said Abbot Hugo, “I fear I bring unhappy tidings. The—”
“Who are you?” asked the king, turning to the young man standing a few steps behind the abbot. “Well? Step up. Let me know you.”
“I am Marshal Guy de Gysburne at your service, Sire,” replied the knight.
“Gysburne, eh? I think I know your father—up north somewhere, isn’t it?”
“Indeed, Majesty.”
“Are you the sheriff ?”
“Majesty?”
“The sheriff I appointed to Elvile—or whatever the miserable place is called.”
“No, Majesty,” replied Guy, “I am the abbot’s marshal. Sheriff de Glanville is—”
“De Glanville—yes! That’s the fellow,” said the king as the memory came back to him. “Came to me begging the use of some soldiers. Where is he? Why isn’t he here?”
“That is what we’ve come to speak to you about, Highness,” said the abbot, resuming his tale of woe. “It pains me to inform you that the realm of Elfael is in open rebellion against your rule. The rebels have slaughtered most of the men you sent to aid in the protection of your loyal subjects.”
Abbot Hugo then proceeded to describe a realm under siege and a population captive to chaos and terror. He spoke passionately and in some detail—so much so that even Gysburne felt himself moved to outrage at the accumulated atrocities, though the abbot’s description had parted company with the truth after the first few words. “If that was not enough,” concluded Hugo, “the outlaws have seized the throne and taken your sheriff hostage.”