it then,” he challenged, a gauntlet the reluctant archbishop was quick to pick up.
“Right gladly,” he growled, rising to his formidable height, angry color staining his cheeks.
“It will serve for naught to squabble amongst ourselves,” the Bishop of Durham interceded smoothly. “My lord archbishop, my lord count. I realize that nerves are on the raw, that we have had disputes in the past that are not easy to put aside. But we owe it to the king to do so, for he will depend upon us to cooperate with one another, to govern in a spirit of harmony whilst he is overseas, fighting the godless infidels who’ve captured the holiest city in Christendom.”
As unlike as they were, a remarkably similar expression crossed the faces of the estranged brothers, the look of men marveling at such blatant, shameless sanctimony. Guillaume Longchamp stifled a smile, preferring to maintain the dignified bearing of one who was above the fray. He thought the Archbishop of York was a dangerous hothead and the Count of Mortain an even more dangerous adversary, for John had few if any scruples and a newly awakened appetite for power. But he reserved his greatest contempt for Hugh de Puiset. The Bishop of Durham was the epitome of all that Longchamp most despised—an arrogant, smug hypocrite, who’d traded upon his high birth, good looks, and glib tongue to advance himself in the Church and at the royal court.
Longchamp was Hugh’s opposite in all particulars, for he’d risen by merit alone, overcoming his modest family background, his small stature, and unprepossessing appearance, no easy task in a world in which people saw physical deformity as an outer manifestation of inner evil. He’d realized early in life that he was much more intelligent than most, and took pride in his intellectual abilities, burning to prove himself to all who’d dismissed him as a “lowborn cripple” or an “ugly dwarf.” Once he’d entered the Duke of Aquitaine’s service and rose rapidly in Richard’s favor, he was no longer treated with ridicule. His detractors became enemies, and he gloried in their hostility. The ambition he’d always kept hidden now came to the fore, and he dared to dream of what had once been unthinkable—a bishopric. And indeed, when Richard became king, he rewarded Longchamp with the bishopric of Ely and the chancellorship. In turn, Longchamp rewarded Richard with the sort of loyalty that was beyond value, almost spiritual in its selfless intensity, rooted as much in Richard’s acceptance of his physical flaws as in the tangible benefits of royal favor.
Longchamp’s ambitions were no longer earthbound, soared higher and higher with each elevation: chancellor, bishop, and then justiciar. He’d even begun to think of the pinnacle of Church power. The Archbishop of Canterbury was going to the Holy Land, too, and he was not a young man. A vacancy might well occur in the next year or two, and what would be more natural than that the king should look to the one man he knew he could trust.
But what Longchamp’s enemies did not understand was that he was also a man of piety. He was not a worldly prince of the Church like the Bishop of Durham, who lived as lavishly as any king, claimed an earldom, and flaunted a mistress by whom he’d had at least four children. Longchamp was offended by such a blatant disregard for a priest’s holy vows, and he meant to punish Hugh de Puiset for his carnal sins as well as for his political machinations and unabashed greed. Looking now at the bishop, so graceful and urbane and haughty, Longchamp smiled to himself, sure that a day of reckoning was coming.
They all jumped to their feet then as the door opened and the king and his mother swept into the chamber; Richard could no more make an unobtrusive entrance than he could have understood his brother John’s crippling insecurities. “I trust you’ve been able to entertain yourselves whilst I was delayed,” he said blandly, giving himself away by the amused glint in his eyes.
After they’d all greeted Eleanor, Richard wasted no time getting to the heart of the meeting. “Tomorrow I will be announcing to the great council that I have decided to change my original arrangements for governing the realm whilst I am away. Instead of acting as co-justiciars, you, my lord,” he said to the Bishop of Durham, “will be justiciar north of the River Humber, and my chancellor will act as justiciar for the rest