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In which Robert
FitzStephan has a less than pleasant conversation with King Edward
Once, Robert had had daily access to the king. Once,
he’d been a constant presence at the king’s court, at first as one of the
king’s preferred guards, after some years as one of his most trusted men. Once,
it would have sufficed for Robert to say he had urgent matters to discuss with
his liege for someone to ensure he was whisked before the king immediately,
everyone fully aware of how high in the king’s confidence Robert FitzStephan
stood. But that was long ago, which was why it took the better part of the
afternoon before Robert and Geoffrey were finally ushered into the king’s
presence.
Hours of kicking his heels had Robert
in an irritated mood, but only a fool would allow that to show when standing
before Edward Plantagenet. The king was in an elaborately carved armchair, one
foot propped on a low stool. In the privacy of his chambers, he’d divested
himself of his coif, spilling waves of hair streaked with silver down to his
shoulders. The grooves that bracketed his mouth were deeper, the pouches under
his eyes heavier, but when he saw Robert, his entire face lit up, shedding
years of his appearance.
“My liege.” Robert knelt, as did
Geoffrey. Discreetly, he took in the surroundings, how the walls blazed with
colour—much more colour than he recalled from when he last was inside the
king’s chamber. He remembered depictions of the saintly Edward the Confessor
keeping the king company as he held vigil before his coronation, but on the
walls strode biblical heroes, men who raised their swords to defend God and
faith.
“Talk of the devil, eh?” the king
said, obliging Robert to pull his gaze away from the walls.
“The devil, my lord?” Robert said.
“I was just telling Lionel it was
best if he leave court and spend time at home with you for a while.” The king’s
expression darkened. “Now that Eustace de Lamont is back.”
“Aye, we heard,” Geoffrey said,
waiting until the king gestured before rising to his feet. “That is why we are
here, my liege.”
“To complain about Eustace? He’s only
been back in England a fortnight. Surely, the man deserves a chance.”
“We have reason to believe he
murdered—” Geoffrey began.
“Terrible business, terrible,” the
king interrupted, inclining his head in the direction of his squires.
Only once they were alone did the
king turn a frosty gaze on Geoffrey. “I am saddened to hear Richard de Lamont
is dead, and aye, his death benefits his older half-brother. I would even go as
far as to say Eustace likely had a hand in it. But without proof, any
accusation you make is calumny.”
“Richard isn’t dead, my liege,”
Robert said. “The miscreant who so casually slit a little lad’s throat killed
the wrong child. But for now, I believe it is best we keep the fact that
Richard is alive to ourselves.”
The king’s brows rose. “He’s not
dead?”
“Nay. His companion was killed in his
stead.” Geoffrey crossed himself; Robert followed suit. Poor lad, to die like a
butchered pig and all because he somewhat resembled the lordling he served.
“Does Hereford know?” the king asked.
“He does now,” Geoffrey said.
“Matilda felt it wise not to commit anything to parchment.”
“Hmm.” The king sipped from his
goblet. “So mayhap it wasn’t Eustace. Mayhap it was just a madman attacking a
defenceless lad.” He sounded relieved, his posture relaxing.
That did not tally with what Lionel
had told Robert, eyes huge as he hesitantly described what he’d seen in the
stables. Poor lad: he’d paled significantly when describing that severed little
hand. But Robert was not entirely sure it would be wise to share all this with
the king. No matter what Lionel had witnessed, it would be his word against
Eustace’s, and Robert was reluctant to subject Lionel to the experience of
testifying before a group of barons. Now, had he been able to find the hand . .
. Robert grimaced.
“. . . and it seems to me Eustace de
Lamont is presently most occupied with his new wife,” the king said, recalling
Robert to the royal chamber. “From what I hear, he is determined to have her
heavy with child as quickly as possible.”
“Apparently, it is taking some time,
my liege,” Geoffrey said. “They wed well over a year ago.”
“Such things do not necessarily
happen overnight,” the king said testily. He turned to Robert. “Have you seen
him yet? Your half-brother?”
Robert scowled. “At a distance, my
liege. I’d prefer to keep it that way. Last time I was in his proximity, he
cost me and my wife dearly.” Robert rubbed—aye, he did it on purpose—at his
scarred thigh. “And he is no brother of mine.”
The king’s gaze dropped to Robert’s
hand. “I dare say that feeling is mutual.” He cleared his throat. “He’s been
warned to stay well away from you and yours.”
“Oh, I am sure he will, my liege,”
Robert said. “But that does not preclude him hiring someone to do his dirty
work, like he did five years ago, sending that band of rascals to murder my
children.”
“Once again, no proof,” the king
said.
“Aye there was: we know it was
Eustace’s clerk who paid the rogues.”
“Said the rogue.” The king stood.
“The word of a rogue carries no weight.”
“Eustace de Lamont is a danger to me
and mine,” Robert said through gritted teeth. “I pray daily that the day will
not come when I will lay the bloodied body of one of my children at your feet,
my liege, because how will you comfort me then? How can you comfort me
if they are dead because de Lamont was allowed to live?”
From Geoffrey came a loud gasp.
King Edward turned eyes as brittle as
ice on Robert, his drooping eyelid twitching madly. But this was too important
for Robert to bow under the weight of that gaze. “My children, my liege.
Surely, you, of all men, know the pain of losing a child?”
“I do.” It came out harsh. “As you
well know.” He inhaled a couple of times. “He’ll not harm you or yours,” he
said. “De Lamont may be many things, but he isn’t a fool.” He made a dismissive
gesture with his hand. “I have other matters to handle.”
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