In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,46
blue eyes creased at the corners for a brief moment. “He has grown so sour now, the gasses pop and wheeze out of him almost continually. Not long ago, he bent over too quickly—to pick up a copper groat, the story goes— and such a clap of thunder was heard to break from his arse, the guards came to his chamber at a run. ‘Twas not a clean clap either, for he had to hasten away to change into fresh braies.”
The men’s laughter was strained, but Sparrow ho-hoed with such belly-mirth, he tumbled backward off his bench.
“Aye, ’tis a sad and sorry state to laugh at your own king,” the earl continued with a sigh. “A king who sits farting and counting his plundered coins while a French panderer steals the very lands that birthed our ancestors. Certes, he is the meanest king I have ever served. He has turned nearly every baron in England against him by misusing his power, misusing his position. He has put himself above the law, and, if he was indeed responsible for ordering Arthur’s death, he has also put himself above God. Quite simply said: I hate the man. My fingers ache to squeeze around his throat whenever I am in his presence. I know he is my king and I have forsworn to serve him, but … ah, Jesu, Jesu … if I had half a measure more courage, I would gladly send him on his way to hell.”
No one moved. No one drew a breath. Was the Marshal of England about to appeal to one of them to assassinate the king?
Pembroke noted the silence and his piercing blue eyes passed over each taut face in turn. “Rest easy, friends. I have not come to ask of you what I cannot do myself. But I have come to put forth this to you: we must begin to take measures to limit the throne’s power. As you must already know, Poitou, Anjou, Maine, and Brittany are seething with revolt, burning and pillaging everything tainted by the king’s corruption. The barons in England watch and wait. They meet by twos and threes and know wherein the blame for all of this dissent lays, yet short of calling for a civil war, none are in a strong enough position on their own to lead a campaign against John Plantagenet. Randwulf—you spoke more wisely than you knew when you cursed the impetuousness of Arthur of Brittany. Had he bided his time, had he not thrown his lot in with Philip of France, had he but waited and built up his strength and support among the barons who, in the days ahead, might well have been willing to throw their lot behind an alternative to John’s greed and treachery … well …” He sighed and the huge, calloused hands came together, the fingers locking so as not to betray the tremors of anger and impotence that shook them.
“Were you not the one who said the barons of England would never favour a boy over a man? Were you not the one who said it was better to take the devil we knew than the princeling we knew not?”
William glared at Randwulf. “Walter de Coutances, our wise and vainglorious Archbishop of Rouen, predicted I would rue the day I threw the lot of England’s nobility behind John’s claim to the throne. He would also be crowing with delight to hear me decry that decision now.”
“I am hardly crowing,” the Wolf said. “But since the boy is more than likely dead, it does little good to talk of what might have been or could have been had Arthur lived.”
“Where the interests of England are concerned, men will always talk,” William advised solemnly. “Most especially when there is another possibility to talk about.”
Alaric whistled softly under his breath, having already surmised where the discussion was leading. But it was Eduard who stiffened with a complete look of horror on his face.
“The Princess Eleanor? You would have Arthur’s sister call England to a civil war?”
“Were apples apples and oranges oranges, Eleanor’s claim does precede her uncle John’s,” William pointed out. “And although he beds his nubile young wife day in and day out, he is as yet without a legitimate heir of his own. If he were to die tomorrow of gout and flatulence, Eleanor would succeed him as queen of England.”
“With or without his untimely demise,” the Wolf asked, “are you suggesting the barons would hold with putting another woman on