Prologue
April 1203, Rouen, France
The ethereal, silvery-white light of the moon peeked through breaks in the dense billowy clouds like a spectral hand reaching for its prey. Its ghostly tendrils caressed the water’s surface, illuminating the rower’s destination. The figure in the boat, a noble of lesser pedigree, kept a steady rhythm. His muscles strained against the oars as he glided along the River Seine. Another man, hunched over in the small vessel, remained seated, cloaked in a thick, ermine-lined mantle that covered most of his face and obscured his irate mutterings. The rower paused when they reached the midway point between the two banks.
Surrounded by the stillness of the night and the gentle lapping of the water against the boat’s hull, he whispered to his king, ‘Sire, we are here.’ He then placed the oars into the bow of the wooden vessel, taking care not to place them near the shapeless form.
‘Here? Is it deep enough?’
‘Very deep here, sire.’
‘And you have stitched stones into his clothing?’
‘I have done as you asked.’
The king squinted at his accomplice with bleary, bloodshot eyes. The pounding in his head, a constant reminder of the excessive consumption of Burgundy wine he had downed only a few hours previously, despite it being the holy season of Lent. The fiery liquid had fuelled both his courage and his rage, making him feel invincible and unstoppable. But now, as he struggled to maintain focus, he realised the consequences of his actions and the gravity of what was to come. A sour taste lingered in his mouth, a mixture of bitterness and regret, as he tried to piece together the events of that evening.
‘Good. Let us get on with it then.’
Both figures shuffled cautiously towards the trussed up, newly lifeless corpse that lay between them. The rough wooden planks of the boat groaned and swayed heavily beneath their feet, bearing the weight of this macabre burden.
‘By God’s feet, have a care, man.’
‘Sire,’ the accomplice’s voice trembled as he fought to maintain a neutral expression, though his face contorted in a grimace of effort, sweat beading on his forehead as his fingers gripped tightly onto the fabric of the deceased’s tunic. With grim determination, he hoisted the heavy weight in his arms.
‘Hubert de Burgh should have castrated and blinded him as I had ordered. His wilful disregard of my command is tantamount to treason.’
The man dared not look up. With all his strength, he pulled the shapeless weight until it dangled on the edge of the boat’s gunwale. Its heaviness causing the vessel to lean dangerously to that side. The sound of water lapping against the hull and the creaking of wood filled their ears as the craft groaned from its ghastly undertaking.
‘He is substantial, is he not?’
‘Yes, sire. He is his father’s son. As tall — if not taller than Geoffrey, your brother.’
The king glared at his accomplice with accusing eyes. ‘Well, his stature is for naught. His Breton knights cannot save him now. He can lead no rebellion.’
The accomplice nodded his assent.
‘Heave him over, man,’ the king snarled.
However, the man sat back on the narrow wooden plank that formed a rudimentary seat. ‘Sire, it was you who strangled him until his last moment on this earth was extinguished. It should be you who now sends him to his watery grave.’
The king scowled, but said nothing. A moment later he sighed, taking a deep breath, his bleary eyes focusing on the task at hand. ‘Very well.’
Stumbling forward, he heaved the corpse’s bound legs over the side. The small vessel teetered dangerously, threatening to capsize, as he collapsed backwards onto his seat. ‘William Briouze, you shall be well rewarded for your unwavering support. However, it goes without saying that this stays between us.’
The corpse perched on the gunwale for just a moment, as if surveying all around, before its weight tipped it over with a splash.
Both figures then leaned precariously over the side of the boat, their eyes trained on the body as it slowly sank into the murky depths below, his lifeless eyes staring up at them. The water churned and rippled in its wake, eventually hiding the murdered man from their view.
‘Well, at least now the usurper cannot take my throne or my lands,’ shrugged King John.
