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“We have still won.”
“With your imminent demise?” It was a moment of glory. A heartbeat away from striking the deathblow to the traitor. Especially when he saw Fitz Hubert emerge from the trees unscathed.
But then Robert, his breathing labored, smiled at William. “Who do you think convinced the king to move his treasure for safekeeping, then set up this ambush? ’Twas I . . . Prince Louis, the true king, who sits now in London, will reap the benefits of your false king’s greed . . . The treasure will be ours.” He sucked in a lungful of air. “We have spies in every court . . . Every last jewel in his crown, every last bit of his gold, will finance Louis’s campaign. England will be his . . . You and your ilk will swear fealty to Louis before this week is through.”
“Not if I have aught to say about it.”
William drove the sword home, twisting to make sure the final thrust brought death. He left the body where it was, then eyed Fitz Hubert. “Are you hurt?”
“A cracked rib, I fear.”
“You heard?”
“Aye.”
They managed to recover only one horse, William’s, and they decided because of Fitz Hubert’s injury, William would ride to warn the king. When he reached the encampment in Bishop’s Lynn, he saw it on the faces of the others. John de Lacy met him outside the king’s tent, refusing him entry. “The king is ill. Dysentery. He wishes to see no one.”
“He will see me. Make way or forfeit your life.”
“What—”
William pushed past him and entered the tent, his nostrils flaring at the putrid air. The king’s physician and two stewards were in attendance. Candles flickered in their stands around the king’s pallet, casting a dim glow about the still form. Too still. William feared the king might be dead by now. But as he neared, he saw his chest rise and fall with each shallow breath. “My liege.” William took to his knee at the king’s bedside, bowing his head. “I have failed you.”
The king’s eyes opened slightly. A sheen of perspiration covered his brow. “How so?”
“What I have to say is best told in private.”
King John said nothing at first, just stared at William. Then, a slight flick of his wrist. “Be gone. All.”
William waited until the tent was cleared. And, even then, he was loath to impart the news. “I failed to recognize a traitor in your midst. Perhaps not the only one. Robert de Braose. He told me you were dying. Before he possibly could have heard.”
“Dysentery.”
“I fear not.”
The king closed his eyes, and for a moment William worried that he would not waken. “Who would do this?”
“That, I do not know. But whoever has worked this evil, they know of the royal treasure you bring with you. It is meant to finance Prince Louis’s claim on the English throne. They know you are moving it. Your illness was to be the distraction needed so that on the morrow they could take it.”
“My son . . .” The king reached out, grasped at William’s hand, his grip weak, feverish. “What of Henry?”
“He is safe. I will guard him with my life.” The king’s oldest son, a mere lad of nine, was innocent of the dishonesty and treachery of the last several kings—his father and all his relatives included. If there was to be any hope for England, it would be through a monarch who was untouched by greed and murder. “I fear that the temptation of such a treasure will be too much for the young prince’s reign.”
“He will need all of my treasure to finance his retribution. To win back our lands.”
“My liege. If I may be frank. As long as that treasure exists, there will be those who want nothing more than to possess it. Louis of France is only the first of many. And lest you forget, the rebel barons you have fought against these past several months cannot be trusted. Not while the lure of gold and riches tempts them.” He waited a moment to make sure his words were heard and understood. “A poor kingdom is far less desirable. Even more important, a young king barely old enough to rule a poor kingdom is no longer a threat . . .”
“What are you saying?”
“What if that treasure was lost this night while we were trying to move it through the quicksand of the fens? If you lose the treasure, you lose your son’s enemies.”
The king remained silent, his breathing shallow.
“You are dying, sire.” Though he didn’t want to believe, he knew the words were true. This was no dysentery. He’d seen it before. A slow poison that ate away at the gut. The king would last perhaps a week or more, his pain excruciating while he waited—nay, prayed for death. “This way, we know young Henry will be safe.”
“And if my son should need the treasure? When he is older?”
“He won’t. As long as it remains lost, he will be safe.”