Joining

  Johanna

  Lindsey

  JOINING

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

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  Copyright

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  One

  England, 1214

  Walter de Roghton sat in the antechamber outside the king’s chamber, where he had been left to wait. He was still hopeful that he was to have the audience that he had been promised, but as minutes turned to hours and still he was not summoned, it was doubtful that it would be tonight. Other lords had gathered, other hopefuls like himself who wanted something of King John. Walter was the only one among them who didn’t appear nervous. He was; he just managed to conceal it much better than the others.

  And there was much to be nervous about. John Plantagenet was one of the most hated kings in all of Christendom, one of the most treacherous and deceitful. A king who thought nothing of hanging innocent children who’d been held as hostages when he needed to set an example for his enemies. As an example, it had failed. As a heinous act, it had served to turn John’s barons even more against him, in fear and disgust.

  This was a king who twice tried to wrest the crown from his own brother, Richard Lionheart, and had twice been forgiven that treason due to their mother’s intervention. And once the crown was his upon Richard’s death, he’d had the only other claimant to it, his young nephew Arthur, killed, and Arthur’s sister Eleanor imprisoned for more than half her life.

  Some had pitied John as the youngest of King Henry’s four sons. There had been nothing left of Henry’s kingdom to give to John after it had been divided among his older brothers. Thus the name that had long followed him of John Lackland. But there was little to pity about the man who had become king. There was nothing to pity about the man who had put his country under excommunication for many years because of his war with the church, a ban that had only just been lifted. No, there was much to hate about this king, and much to fear.

  Walter was making himself more nervous thinking about John’s many misdeeds, though he still managed to appear calm to any who might glance his way. For the thousandth time he wondered, was it worth it? And what if his proposed plan went awry?

  Walter could, in truth, live out the rest of his days without ever coming under the king’s notice. He was a minor baron, after all, one who had no need to frequent the king’s court. But there was the rub. He was of little import … yet he would have it otherwise.

  It should have been otherwise years ago, when he had discovered the perfect heiress and diligently courted her, only to have her stolen from him by a lord with a greater title. The woman who should have been his wife, Lady Anne of Lydshire, would have brought him great wealth and power with her dower lands. Instead she had been given to Guy de Thorpe, the Earl of Shefford, more than doubling de Thorpe’s holdings, thereby making his one of the more powerful families in England.

  The wife Walter did finally end up with had been a bad choice all around, as it turned out, which only added salt to the wound of his resentment. The property she had brought him had been acceptable at the time, but was unfortunately located in La Marche, and so lost when John lost most of his French holdings. Walter could have retained the land if he’d been willing to swear allegiance to the French king, but then he would have lost his keep in England. And his property in England was the larger.

  Additionally, his wife had given him no sons, and only one daughter. Useless, that woman was. His daughter, Claire, however, he finally had a use for, now she’d reached the marriageable age of ten and two.

  Thus Walter’s visit to King John was twofold, revenge for that long-ago slight, when he had been overlooked as a suitor for Anne, and to finally wrest her property and more from Shefford by marrying Claire to Shefford’s only son and heir.

  It was a brilliant plan and the timing for it was ideal. Rumors were flying that John was soon going to make another attempt to seize the Angevin lands he had lost so long ago. And Walter had a carrot to dangle in front of John—if only he could lay the plan before him.

  Finally the door to John’s chamber opened and Chester, one of the few earls whom John still trusted completely, ushered Walter in. He made haste to kneel before the king, was impatiently waved to his feet.

  The chamber was not empty as Walter had hoped. John’s wife Isabelle was there, with one of her ladies-in-waiting. Walter had never seen the queen this close before, and spent several bemused moments in awe when he did glance at her. Verily, the rumors of her were indeed true. If she was not the most beautiful woman in the world, she was surely the most beautiful in England.

  John was more than twice her age—he had married Isabelle when she was just ten and two. And although that was an age to marry, most nobles who took brides that young chose to wait a few years before they actually consummated the marriages. Not so John, for Isabelle had been ripe for her age, and too beautiful to resist for a man whose wenching had been notorious prior to this marriage.

  Not as tall as his brother Richard, but still handsome at two score and six, John was the dark one of the family, with black hair now liberally laced with gray, and his father’s green eyes and somewhat stocky build.

  John smiled indulgently when he noted the direction of Walter’s gaze and his incredulity, a reaction he was most used to and pleased with. His young wife’s beauty did him proud. But his smile was brief, the hour late, and he did not recognize Walter, had only been told by his clerk that one of his barons had urgent news for him.

  So his question was bald and to the point. “Do I know you?”

  Walter blushed to have been distracted from his cause for even a few moments. “Nay, Your Grace, we have never met, for ’tis rarely I come to court. I am Walter de Roghton. I hold a small keep from the Earl of Pembroke.”

  “Then mayhap your news should have been given to Pembroke, who could have relayed it to me?”

  “’Tis not of a nature to entrust to any other, m’lord, and—and ’tis not exactly news,” Walter was forced to admit. “I knew no other way to explain to your clerk when he did ask me for the reason I was here.”

  John was piqued by the cryptic reply. He was himself a man who dealt much in subtleties and innuendos. “Not news, but something I should know, and not entrusted even to your liege lord?” John smiled now. “Verily, keep me in suspense no longer.”

  “If we could spea
k in privacy?” Walter whispered, again looking toward the queen.

  John made a moue, but still directed Walter toward the window seat on the far side of the room from the ladies. He spoke of many things with his lovely young wife, but he allowed some things were best not discussed with a woman known to love gossip.

  John carried a glass of wine with him. He had not offered Walter the same. And his impatience was palpable.

  Walter got right to the point as soon as they sat facing each other in the deep window embrasure. “You are likely aware of the betrothal, contracted years ago with your brother Richard’s blessing, of Shefford’s heir and the Crispin girl?”

  “Aye, I believe I have heard mention of it ere now, a match foolishly made due more to friendship than gain.”

  “Not exactly, Your Grace,” Walter said carefully. “Mayhap you are not aware, then, that Nigel Crispin returned from the Holy Land with a veritable fortune, and a good portion of it comes with the bride to the marriage?”

  “A fortune?”

  John’s interest was thoroughly aroused now. He had always lacked the funds to run his kingdom properly, since Richard had drained the realm coffers for his bloody crusading. But a fortune to a minor baron such as Walter likely would not be anywhere near a fortune a king would take note of.

  So he wanted clarified, “What mean you a fortune? A few hundred marks and some gold cups?”

  “Nay, Your Grace, more like a king’s ransom several times over.”

  John shot to his feet, incredulous. Any king’s ransom that was mentioned in his day could only refer to the one demanded in ransom for his brother Richard when he had been captured by one of his enemies on his return home from the Holy Lands.

  “More than a hundred thousand marks?”

  “Easily double that,” Walter replied.

  “How is it you know this, when it has never reached my ears ere now?”

  “’Tis no secret among Lord Nigel’s close acquaintances, aye, even a heroic tale of how he came by this fortune in the saving of your brother’s life. ’Tis just not something he would want spread far and wide, and rightly so, with so many thieves rife in the lands. I only heard mention of it by accident myself, when I heard how much of that fortune comes with Shefford’s bride-to-be.”

  “And how much would that be?”

  “Seventy-five thousand marks.”

  “Unheard-of!” John exclaimed.

  “But understandable, since Crispin is not land-rich, whereas Shefford is. Crispin could be land-rich did he choose to, but he is an unostentatious man, ’twould seem, who is happy with his little castle and only a few other small holdings. Verily, few realize it, just how powerful Crispin is with such wealth behind him, the immense army of mercenaries he could raise if need be.”

  John did not need to hear more. “And if those two families join in marriage, they would in truth be more powerful than even Pembroke and Chester.”

  What he didn’t add was they could be even more powerful than he himself, especially when so many of his barons ignored his demands for aid, or turned outright rebel against him, but Walter understood that, as did John.

  “Then you see the need to prevent this joining?” Walter ventured.

  “What I see is that Guy de Thorpe has never denied me aid when requested, has continually supported my wars, ofttimes even sending his son and a well-supplied army of knights to fill my ranks. What I see is this nigh landless Nigel Crispin will now be taxed accordingly. What I see is if I did perforce forbid this joining, these two friends”—this was said with a full dose of disgust—“would then have cause to still join—but against me.”

  “But if something or someone other than yourself prevented that particular joining?” Walter asked slyly.

  At that, John burst out laughing, drawing a brief, curious look from his wife across the room. “I would not be the least bit remorseful.”

  Walter smiled serenely, for this was what he had counted on. “It would be of even further benefit, Your Grace, if, when Shefford must look for a new bride, you were to suggest one with dower lands across the channel. Tis known he sends knights for your wars in England and Wales, but he sends scutage for your French wars, since he has no personal interest there. But did his son’s wife have dower lands in, say, La Marche, then he would have a personal interest in seeing that the Count of La Marche troubles you no more. And three hundred knights is worth more than the one thousand mercenaries their fees in scutage would bring you, you will agree.” John smiled as well, for that was indeed true. One loyal, well-trained knight was worth far more than a half dozen mercenaries. And three hundred well-trained knights, which was what Shefford could muster, could mean the difference in winning an important skirmish.

  “I suppose you have just such a daughter with dower lands in La Marche?” John asked, as a mere formality. He already guessed the answer.

  “Indeed, m’lord.”

  “Then I see no reason not to recommend her—if the Shefford whelp does go looking for a new bride.”

  It was not exactly a promise, but then King John was not known to keep promises. But Walter was satisfied.

  Two

  “You know my feelings on this, Father. ’Twould tax me little to name many heiresses more suitable for my wife, one or two I would even like to have, yet you have bound me to your friend’s daughter who brings us naught but more coins, which we do not need.”

  Guy de Thorpe stared at his son and sighed. Wulfric had come late to his marriage, when he had despaired of ever having a son. His two eldest daughters were already wed ere he was even born. Guy even had grandchildren who were older than his son. But for an only son—at least his only legitimate son—Guy could not truly find fault with him, had much to be proud of—except for his stubbornness, and with it, his propensity to argue with his sire.

  Like Guy, Wulfric was a large man, with muscles honed thick from training and warfare. They both also bore the thick black hair and blue eyes from Guy’s father, though Guy’s were a lighter blue, while Wulfric’s a darker hue, and Guy’s thick mane was now more gray than black. The square, unyielding jaw was more Anne’s, though, and that straight, patrician nose came from her side of the family as well. Still, Wulfric much resembled Guy, was in fact a more handsome version; leastwise the ladies thought him fair to look upon.

  “Is that why you have chased after wars since the girl came of age, Wulf? To avoid wedding her?”

  Wulfric had the grace to blush, since that was exactly what he had done. But he defended himself. “The one time I met her, she had her falcon attack me. I still carry the scar.”

  Guy was incredulous. “That is why you have always refused to go again with me to Dunburh Castle? Jesu, Wulf, she was just a small child. You carry a grudge against a child?”

  Wulfric flushed with remembered anger now, rather than embarrassment. “She was a veritable shrew, Father. Verily, she acted more the boy than the girl, challenging, swearing, attacking any who would gainsay her, no matter their size or age. But nay, that is not why I do not want her. I want Agnes of York instead.”

  “Why?”

  Wulfric was given pause at the unexpected direct query. “Why?”

  “Aye, why? Do you love her?”

  “I know I would like to see her in my bed, but love her? Nay, I doubt me I do.”

  Guy chuckled at that, much relieved. “There is naught wrong with lust. ’Tis a healthy emotion—if you discount what pious priests say of it. A man is lucky if he finds it in his marriage, luckier still if he finds love there as well. But you know as well as I that a marriage is not needed to have either.”

  “So I am peculiar, to prefer to lust after my wife rather than her serving wenches,” Wulfric maintained stubbornly.

  It was Guy’s turn to blush. ’Twas no secret that he bore no great love for his wife, Anne. But he was fond of her, and gave her every respect, including keeping his mistresses out of her domain. Unlike his friend Nigel, who had loved his wife dearly, and to thi
s day continued to mourn her loss, Guy had never known that emotion with a woman, nor did he feel deprived to have never known it. But lust, on the other hand—he’d had many mistresses over the years, too many to count, and if Anne had not heard of them, his son certainly had.

  Though there was no censure in Wulfric’s look. He had been wenching himself from a young age, so was in no position to cast stones. Therefore, Guy saw no need to explain how easily lust could be satisfied, whether with one’s wife or not. What a man would prefer was rarely the plate he was served. But then such was life.

  He said instead, “I will not embarrass our family by asking to null the betrothal contract. You know that Nigel Crispin is my closest friend. You also know that he saved my life, when my horse had fallen on me, trapping me beneath it so I could not escape, and a Saracen scimitar was within inches of taking off my head. There was naught I could do to repay him—that he would accept—then. ’Twas mostly gratitude that had me offer what was dearest to me, you, when he at last sired daughters. The joining of our families was secondary. What he could contribute to that joining was of little import—at least at the time.”

  “At the time? Mean you to say ’tis important now?” Wulfric said in scoffing tones.

  Guy again sighed. “If the king demanded only the forty days service due him, ’twould not be important, but he asks for more than that. If you had given him only the forty days due, ’twould not be important, but you gave him more. Even now you just return from fighting, yet already mention you mean to cross the channel with the king on his next campaign. Well, enough is enough, Wulf. We cannot continue to support our people and the king’s army as well.”

  “You never said we were struggling,” Wulfric replied almost accusingly.

  “I would not have you worry, when you were off fighting John’s battles. And ’tis not a dire circumstance, just a troublesome one, with too many things occurring in the last ten years to deplete our reserves. The king’s visit here last year with his entire court hurt, but that is to be expected, occurs anywhere he goes, which is why he can never stay long in one place. Those campaigns in Wales hurt more, with not a farm there in sight to feed your men, and the Welsh gone into the hills a-hiding …”