Free Here Be Dragons - 1 by Sharon Kay Penman

Philip, conceding defeat with a wry smile, signaled to a servant.
"We'll see Lord John now."
John had rarely been so nervous; eleventh-hour allies were not always welcomed with open arms. He was much relieved, therefore, when the French King smiled as he knelt, at once motioned him to rise.
"Your Grace," he said, with an answering smile that lost all spontaneity, all sincerity, at sight of his brother. Even in the dim light of a command tent, Richard's coloring had lost none of its vibrancy, eyes blazingly blue, hair bronzed even brighter now by a summer in the saddle. Most likely, John thought sourly, he did glow in the dark. "Richard," he said, as if they'd been parted just that morning, and Richard gave him an equally indifferent greeting in return.
"You did surprise me, John," he said dryly. "I'd expected you to turn up weeks ago. Cutting it rather close, were you not, Little Brother?"
Fortunately for John, hatred choked all utterance. He stared at Richard, reminding himself this was but one more grievance to be credited to Richard's account, promising himself that payment would be in the coin of his choosing.
Philip had been watching the Angevin brothers with covert amusement. Now he asked the question John most dreaded. "John . . . how does Henry?"
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John had given this a great deal of thought in the hours since his midnight flight from Chinon. He had no way of knowing if Philip and Richard were aware of the gravity of Henry's illness, could only hope they were not; an infidel who converted at knife-point had, of necessity, to count for less than one who willingly renounced his heresy.
"I do not know, Your Grace. I've not seen my father since we fled Le Mans."
Richard and Philip exchanged glances, and then Richard said, "Rumor has it he is bedridden, but I expect it's yet another of his damnable tricks; he could teach a fox about slyness."
John said nothing, concentrated his attention upon a nearby fruit bowl.
Picking out two apples, he tossed one to Richard, a sudden, swift pitch that disconcerted Richard not in the least. He caught it with the utmost ease, his the lithe coordination, the lazy, loose grace of the born athlete. John doubted that Richard had made a careless misstep, a clumsy move in all of his thirty-one years.
Richard crunched into the apple. "Let's talk about you, Little Brother. What is the going price for" He caught himself, but not in time.
"Betrayal? What game are we playing now, Richard? If we are tallying up sins, I rather doubt you're in any position to cast the first stone."
There was a silence, and then Richard gave a short laugh. "Fair enough. I
deserved that. Let me put it another way. What do you want for your support?"
"Only what be my just due," John said cautiously, "what I've been promised since boyhood. The county of Mortain, the earldom of Gloucester, the incomes from the lordship of Ireland, Nottingham Castle."
Richard did not hesitate. "Done," he said, so readily that John regretted not asking for more.
He murmured a perfunctory expression of appreciation, and then said, "You might want to do something for our brother Geoffrey, too. If I were you, Richard, I'd keep Geoffrey in mind when it comes time to fill the next vacant bishopric."
Richard frowned, but after a moment he began to laugh. "An excellent thought, Little Brother. I shall do just that."
Philip looked from one to the other in bemusement. "I seem to have missed something. Correct me if I be wrong, but I never thought either one of you to be overly fond of Geoffrey. Why, then, do you want to make him a bishop?"
"Geoffrey has no more calling for the priesthood than I have," Richard said with a grin. "Some years ago, our father sought for him a career in the
Church, tried to make him Bishop of Lincoln, but he balked, refused to be ordained. So we'd be doing him no favor."
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"Brother Geoffrey has ambitions ill befitting his base blood," John added softly. "Too often have I heard him remind people that William the