great celebration and for the bride’s coronation; after all, she is King Henry’s cousin.
I write also for Mick. When he dips his quill, it is not in ink, I assure you.
The devastator of England swept down from his fastness with fire and sword, his battle helmet crested with a fierce wolf. It took all the armies of King Henry, William Marshal, Hubert de Burgh, and Ranulf of Chester three long months of hard fighting to quell the uprising that had spread like wildfire. William Marshal’s vast storehouses from Chepstowe to Pembrokewere emptied to victual the entire army before Llewellyn was brought low enough to beg for terms.
Richard of Cornwall and the marshal were thrown together in battle frequently. At first they were not on speaking terms, but grudgingly William was forced to admit that Richard was a brilliant strategist as well as a brave and valiant knight. He took his hand in a renewed pledge of friendship and hoped that Fate would arrange the future to someday make them brothers-in-law.
All had conspired to keep young King Henry out of the fray, but when it came time to negotiate terms of peace, Henry insisted upon riding out with the Marshal of England. William was appalled at how easily the crafty Llewellyn manipulated his young monarch, but he kept a wise silence. In exchange for a yearly gift of goshawks, falcons, and Welsh bowmen, Henry agreed to make Hubert de Burgh raze his castle at Montgomery.
When King Henry arrived back at Westminster, the business of England, neglected for three months, threatened to overwhelm him. He ignored the scores of petitioners and complainants clogging the halls, declaring that the only important matter he would attend to was his wedding. He made one exception, however. Simon de Montfort, younger son of the Sovereign Prince of Southern France, demanded an audience. The de Montfort men were reputed to be the greatest warriors on the whole continent. They were war lords who had fought on Crusades, conquered the country of Toulouse, and were a continual threat to Louis of France.
Henry was closeted in his office behind the exchequer, issuing orders to his chamberlain in charge of ceremonial matters. “I want the streets of London cleaned up, aye, and its moral tone. Get rid of the whores, stop the drinking and loose living. Forbid games in the churchyards. I want cressets of oil placed at every street corner for illumination.”
The chamberlain was nodding, but he wondered where he would get the money for all this. Richard of Cornwall walked into the office to interrupt them.
“Henry, are you aware that Simon de Montfort has been cooling his heels for two days, waiting to see you?”
“The war lord?” asked Henry, not able to conceal the awe the very name de Montfort inspired. He turned to the chancellor. “Find him and usher him in immediately.”
“Nay, Henry,” Richard protested, “let’s not receive him in this dark cubbyhole you call an office. He’s descended from the great Robert of Leicester. He has more Anglo-Norman blood than we have, for Christ’s sake.”
“The throne room?” Henry suggested.
Richard shook his head decisively. “Invite him to your private apartment. He’s kin to us. We want to extend the hand of friendship … he would make a deadly enemy.” Richard instructed the chamberlain and added, “See that the steward attends us to offer hospitality and provide refreshment.”
When Simon de Montfort entered Henry’s apartment, the king’s mouth literally gaped open. The war lord was the largest man he had ever seen. His actual height was six feet four inches, but when anyone described him they invariably said he was six-and-a-half-feet tall. His torso was so well muscled his clothes could do naught to disguise his magnificent physique. He had the dark beauty of the Southern French and his eyes were a magnetic, jet black.
Richard’s eyes held only admiration, while Henry’s flickered with fear. The war lord had come armed into
I write also for Mick. When he dips his quill, it is not in ink, I assure you.
The devastator of England swept down from his fastness with fire and sword, his battle helmet crested with a fierce wolf. It took all the armies of King Henry, William Marshal, Hubert de Burgh, and Ranulf of Chester three long months of hard fighting to quell the uprising that had spread like wildfire. William Marshal’s vast storehouses from Chepstowe to Pembrokewere emptied to victual the entire army before Llewellyn was brought low enough to beg for terms.
Richard of Cornwall and the marshal were thrown together in battle frequently. At first they were not on speaking terms, but grudgingly William was forced to admit that Richard was a brilliant strategist as well as a brave and valiant knight. He took his hand in a renewed pledge of friendship and hoped that Fate would arrange the future to someday make them brothers-in-law.
All had conspired to keep young King Henry out of the fray, but when it came time to negotiate terms of peace, Henry insisted upon riding out with the Marshal of England. William was appalled at how easily the crafty Llewellyn manipulated his young monarch, but he kept a wise silence. In exchange for a yearly gift of goshawks, falcons, and Welsh bowmen, Henry agreed to make Hubert de Burgh raze his castle at Montgomery.
When King Henry arrived back at Westminster, the business of England, neglected for three months, threatened to overwhelm him. He ignored the scores of petitioners and complainants clogging the halls, declaring that the only important matter he would attend to was his wedding. He made one exception, however. Simon de Montfort, younger son of the Sovereign Prince of Southern France, demanded an audience. The de Montfort men were reputed to be the greatest warriors on the whole continent. They were war lords who had fought on Crusades, conquered the country of Toulouse, and were a continual threat to Louis of France.
Henry was closeted in his office behind the exchequer, issuing orders to his chamberlain in charge of ceremonial matters. “I want the streets of London cleaned up, aye, and its moral tone. Get rid of the whores, stop the drinking and loose living. Forbid games in the churchyards. I want cressets of oil placed at every street corner for illumination.”
The chamberlain was nodding, but he wondered where he would get the money for all this. Richard of Cornwall walked into the office to interrupt them.
“Henry, are you aware that Simon de Montfort has been cooling his heels for two days, waiting to see you?”
“The war lord?” asked Henry, not able to conceal the awe the very name de Montfort inspired. He turned to the chancellor. “Find him and usher him in immediately.”
“Nay, Henry,” Richard protested, “let’s not receive him in this dark cubbyhole you call an office. He’s descended from the great Robert of Leicester. He has more Anglo-Norman blood than we have, for Christ’s sake.”
“The throne room?” Henry suggested.
Richard shook his head decisively. “Invite him to your private apartment. He’s kin to us. We want to extend the hand of friendship … he would make a deadly enemy.” Richard instructed the chamberlain and added, “See that the steward attends us to offer hospitality and provide refreshment.”
When Simon de Montfort entered Henry’s apartment, the king’s mouth literally gaped open. The war lord was the largest man he had ever seen. His actual height was six feet four inches, but when anyone described him they invariably said he was six-and-a-half-feet tall. His torso was so well muscled his clothes could do naught to disguise his magnificent physique. He had the dark beauty of the Southern French and his eyes were a magnetic, jet black.
Richard’s eyes held only admiration, while Henry’s flickered with fear. The war lord had come armed into
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