The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  Richard shook his head, as though to dislodge the words from his ears. So Philip is insulted by my approaches. I’m gross and filthy, am I, and best suited to mount a boar? Well, we shall see about that! As I root his petty kingdom out of the ground! As I toss him to Hell on the tusks he gives me! Oh, God’s legs, we shall see about that!

  His fury imbued him with almost comical strength. He brought his fist down on the table with such force that the wood lifted, throwing John to the floor. He writhed in pain, and Richard hurried to collect him.

  ‘You stay by me, boy, and you will witness the death-throes of France!’ He was close to tears, the lion-called-swine.

  Chapter Eight

  Midstream

  June 1194 – October 1197

  Well, Eleanor thought, what else did I expect? Why else did I tell her Richard had arrived, if not to bring her up here? I’m becoming so devious in my old age, I have to trick the truth from myself.

  She had had two years in which to ponder the problem of Berengaria, but even now her emotions were tangled. Richard was what he was; her son and Berengaria’s husband. An absent king, and yet the most exotic figure in Christendom. A lion in battle, and a deserter from the marriage bed. A giant of a man, who preferred soldiers to civilians and men to women. All women, that is, save Eleanor.

  Not for the first time, she wished a physician could do what God had failed to do-make an incision in Richard’s scalp, and in John’s, and transfer some of the Lionheart’s courage and Softsword’s lechery. Physicians were fond of making the cruciform cut and tapping a hole in the skull to let out madness, so why not extract virtues, or useful vices? If only that could be done…

  Her feelings about Berengaria were no less mixed. The woman was too passive, as Richard had maintained. She had allowed her husband to push her aside, when she should have clung to him, claiming her rights. Who was to say she could not have changed him, had she persevered? But, in fairness to Berengaria, no one had ever told her what change was required. She did not know the nature of his disease, so how could she effect a cure?

  Nevertheless, Eleanor welcomed her to Lisieux, and made light of Richard’s absence. ‘He is conducting the campaign against Philip, and it goes well, I’m glad to say. He’s already driven the French out of Vemeuil and Evreux, and, the last we heard, he was at Loches. He’s also reconciled with John, who has gone to hold Rouen for him. As soon as this present offensive is over, we’ll make the king behave like a husband again. It’s time he came home to you.’

  She nodded encouragement, but noticed a stubbornness in Berengaria’s manner. The young queen did not smile so willingly, nor let the smile linger. I’ll hear your reasons, she signified, but they will make no difference. You know what it has cost me to come here. I have buried my pride and exhausted my patience. I am like a camp-follower, a whore dogging the troops. You are also a proud woman, Eleanor, so you must know what I have suffered. But I am here now, and I shall not be put off again.

  All that was clear in her expression, that and the fear in her eyes. She had submerged her pride, and let the world see her trailing after her husband. But what if he refused to meet her? What if she insisted on following him to his camp or castle or wherever he was, and was then refused admission? But, no, he would not be so cruel. He would not shame her again, as he had by ignoring her in Sicily, deserting her on her wedding day in Cyprus, leaving her to traipse after him through Palestine. If she appeared before him now, and spoke of her love for him, if she let him see for himself how she still adored him, then surely he would not turn her away. But her eyes showed how uncertain she was.

  ‘I would rather not wait,’ Berengaria said. ‘I have no home unless you mean the house you lent me in Aquitaine.’ ‘England is your home. As queen—’

  ‘England? It’s a foreign country to me. I have never been there, and it was you, yourself, who told me not to come. You said I was not strong enough to deal with John and his barons, do you remember? At the time I thought you were referring to my recent illness, but since then I have begun to wonder. Are you keeping me from him, Eleanor? Is there some reason why I should not see my husband? Or is it as I have long suspected, that he does not wish to see me?’

  ‘My dear—’

  ‘Or perhaps I have been deposed, but not yet informed. We hear so little of importance, in Aquitaine.’ Again a small smile quickly herded away. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘What does prevent me riding to Loches, or wherever he is?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Eleanor replied. ‘You are the Queen of England, and that includes Touraine. But, while he is involved in this campaign – Well, everything takes second place to Richard’s love of war. Later, when he has driven the French from his duchy—’

  ‘He will drive them from somewhere else.’ She moved forward with the firmness of desperation, and caught Eleanor’s hands in hers. ‘We are alone now, Lady Eleanor, and it is time we spoke our thoughts. You have been gentle with me in the past, and I know you wish to keep me from harm. But, whatever kindnesses we feel for each other, we have nothing in common as women. Indeed, we are as different as two women can be! You do what you wish, but I must speak my thoughts!

  ‘You have eaten, Lady Eleanor, but I have not yet been fed. You are more than seventy-two years old. You have had your marriages, and your kings. You have been the Lady of France, and the Lady of England, and nine times a mother! Nine times! And what have I had, but a presence beside me at my wedding, and then nothing! I love Richard. I live for him, and dream of him, and he is never there!

  ‘You brought me to him. You fostered the marriage. You made me his wife! And now I— I command you, take me to him, or tell me why you will not!’

  Wincing with pain, Eleanor said, ‘These old bones are brittle, my lady. I deserve some torture, no doubt, but not my fingers crushed.’

  ‘Will you take me to him, or not?’

  ‘When you arrived, yes, it was my intention that you should see him as soon as possible. But what you have just said has shocked me to my senses. You are right, my dear, I have eaten. Twice, really; once with King Louis of France, and again with Henry Plantagenet. And I did give birth to nine children, that’s also true. And I put you with Richard.

  ‘But to answer your question afresh, it’s yes and no. Yes, I will take you to him – we’ll start today, if you like – but if I do so, I will not speak my thoughts. You’ll have to deal with him as best you can, and make of him what you may. Or I will tell you what you should have heard two years ago, even before your marriage, then let you decide if you wish to go on with it. One or the other, whichever you choose.’ She massaged her hands, and watched Berengaria’s expression harden.

  ‘I have not travelled this far to play a game, Lady Eleanor. Aquitaine is famous for games and songs and stories; I have no need to set foot outside the house. I have come here with one purpose in mind. To see Richard and learn why I have been discarded. That’s what I want to know. And you will tell me.’

  Whenever I hear my age spoken aloud, Eleanor thought, I begin to feel it. ‘I think you should be seated,’ she said. ‘Here, these chairs are not too hard. It’s French work, as you’ll see by the—’

  ‘Under God, Eleanor!’

  ‘Very well…’ It was her turn to take Berengaria’s hands, and somehow match her courage. ‘Richard Lionheart does not love you. No, please, let me continue. I am the only woman he has ever loved, in the terms you understand. I do not think he has ever shared his bed with a woman, and I am the only one who can, well, afford him some comfort.’ She felt Berengaria’s recoil, but Eleanor’s brittle old bones had become fetters of iron.

  ‘Hear me out, I beg you. You will never hear worse. His preference is for men; it has always been. Christ knows, he is not an animal, but he has told me, oh, he’s told me so much…

  ‘He can talk with men. He is not afraid of them. Well, what man ever frightened the Lionheart? But there is something in him that sets him away from women. It’s a poor analogy perhaps, but there are me
n who don’t like children, and women who don’t, I daresay. I don’t pretend to know the cause, or the cure, but I know my son is averse to all women except me.’

  ‘All women?’ Berengaria murmured slowly. ‘Then it is not personal distaste for me?’

  ‘Oh, my sweet, no! It is not you! You are as fine a—’

  ‘But it is, Eleanor. Don’t you see? It has been, for two abject years. It was made so by you and the others who knew of this – aversion. What else was I to think, tell me that? What else, but that he found me unappealing, witless, a drudge? Yes, it is me, because you made it so. For two years and more, you let me believe it, when I had nothing else to believe! Oh, I had my suspicions; after all, I viewed him from afar in Sicily and Cyprus and the Holy Land. I saw him surrounded by his soldiers, but, do you know what I thought, what was my preference? That even if he was not with me, he did not sniff after other women. Isn’t that sad, Eleanor, that I thought him entirely faithful.’

  This time Eleanor did not resist as the young queen withdrew her hands.

  ‘And I shall always wonder…’ Berengaria said. ‘If I had not smothered my pride and come up here… How much longer would it have gone on? How many more years would you have kept me in ignorance? How much more of my life would have been wasted before I learned the truth? Two years, would you say? Five? No, not five, for I’d be an embarrassment to England by then. My guess is another two at the most, before you worked to have the marriage annulled. And you would, wouldn’t you, Eleanor? There is not one thing in this world you would not do – for the Lionheart.

  ‘It’s strange,’ she concluded. ‘What you have told me. Though it is two years late, it does not diminish my love for Richard. But it makes me like myself somewhat better. Aquitaine is full of young men, and they think well enough of me. I haven’t been unfaithful, you’ll find no trace of that, but opportunities abound, thank God they do. Oh, and one more change has come over me. I now pray that you are soon consigned to Hell, Eleanor. You can marry Satan, and be a thrice-crowned queen.’

  * * *

  The next day, Berengaria, Queen of England and Princess of Navarre, started for her principality and obscurity. Neither England nor its king had any need of her, and she had no further need of them. Instead, she joined the innocent ghosts of history, Alais and Hadwisa and the legions of discarded women who haunted the hallways of the West. Berengaria continued to light candles for the salvation of Richard’s soul, and she was given to periodic bouts of tears. But Richard never went to see her, and her pain was lessened by the knowledge that he never would. Why should he, when he had an army to choose from?

  A few weeks later, the dowager Queen Eleanor retired to the abbey of Fontevrault. This had always been her favourite religious foundation, and she had done much to endow it. She did not die soon, in accordance with Berengaria’s wishes, but lived on for another fourteen years, watching the world from the window of her cell. She had been the most important and influential woman of the age, the patroness of poetry and song, politician and Crusader, confidante and chatelaine, the mistress of a dozen men and the queen of two nations. She had been praised more lavishly, and despised more vehemently than any woman in the span of a hundred years. Eleanor of Aquitaine had always been remarkable, and would doubtless dominate the ghosts…

  * * *

  The border war continued. Richard drove the French from Loches and the fortresses of eastern Touraine, then swung north to gain a decisive victory at Freteval. The bulk of Philip’s troops were routed, and the king himself was forced to flounder chest-deep across a tributary of the Loire. He left behind most of his personal treasury, together with his seals of office, a complete set of silverware and a trunkful of incriminating documents. These showed how long and hard he had worked to undermine Angevin authority in Normandy and the border counties.

  But there was one puzzling aspect of the letters. In them, the French king often referred to Richard, though never in disparaging terms. He spoke of ‘my proud enemy’, or ‘the ambitious Coeur-de-Lion, but never of ‘the sweating boar, the king-cum-swine’.

  There were two interpretations one could place upon his words. Either, he was more courteous with his pen than his tongue, or brother John had been lying. Whichever, it gave Richard pause for thought.

  Prince John was still at Rouen, and fast wishing he wasn’t. King Philip’s flight from Freteval was now a thing of the past, and he had re-established his troops for a further attack on Normandy. He chose Rouen as his first objective, and the joint garrison commanders, John and a Crusader earl named Robert Pernel, were called to the walls to view the invading force.

  Like Marshal and a few others, Pernel had never wavered in his loyalty to the king; first to Henry, then to Richard. He had accompanied two Crusading armies to the Holy Land, then returned to hold Rouen for his king. During Richard’s imprisonment at Durrenstein, Pemel had successfully defended the Norman capital against three French assaults, but even he was impressed by the size of the present invading army.

  Beside him on the city wall, John said, ‘We have less than a week’s food in store. And, at the last arrow count, we were down to sixty a man. I don’t see how we can keep them out.’

  Pernel scratched at the skin around his throat. It was dry and flaky, the result of an infection he had picked up in the East. Out there, Arab physicians had supplied him with an unguent that relieved the itching, but he had long since exhausted the supply. Here, in the West, nothing seemed to work, so he settled for the temporary relief of a good scratch.

  When the itching had lessened, he turned to glare at John. The prince had been with him for almost two months, long enough for Pernel to cultivate a deep and abiding hatred of his compeer. John had shown he had talent – for seducing women, unearthing wine, or finding gamblers to play backgammon. But his greatest gift was to cast shadows, and demoralize the defenders.

  ‘Tell me,’ Pernel said. ‘It’s an achievement in itself to get you up here, on the ramparts. But why is it that, each time we meet, you find it necessary to tell me we lack this, or are weak in that? There’s only so much water, you announce, or so many seams of grain. What will you do when the bins and quivers are empty? You’ll have nothing left to say.’

  ‘I know how you feel about me,’ John retorted, ‘and it’s half what I think of you. What’s your favourite litany, Pernel? “I shall hold this place until King Richard arrives, no matter what”? It should be embroidered on your tunic. But meantime, we run short of food and weapons. And now look – we cannot see the horizon for French banners! Or will you sing your song to them, and watch them all run away? You’re out of time, Pernel, everybody says so. You belong in the past.’

  ‘Everybody? Then they must have elected you as their spokesman, for they don’t say it to me.’ He studied the vast crescent of standards, then observed, ‘You see there? The King of France… There’s his emblem … He never came before, and it might be in our favour…’

  ‘What might? If Philip gets his hands on me, I’d favour a quick death, that’s all. What do you mean, it might be in our favour?’ He scowled nervously at the invaders. They were drawn up out of arrow range, but he could see scaling towers and catapults under construction. Half a day at the most, and then the rocks would fall on Rouen.

  ‘I mean,’ Pernel said, ‘if you cut off the head, the body dies. You must have heard that. If we seize Philip, we can dictate our own terms. We might even bring the war to an end.’ He glanced at John again, then allowed himself a sudden, harsh laugh. ‘Don’t look so gloomy, prince! No one will ask you to go out. You’re best employed here, as the prophet of doom, counting the flour-sacks.’

  John replied with an obscene gesture, then hurried down the inner steps. But both men were aware that he had offered no argument.

  Pernel stayed where he was, a hand around his own throat. There was much that he regretted in life, but, more than anything else, he was sorry he had not brought back a larger supply of unguent from the East.

&nbs
p; * * *

  Richard was still quartered at Loches when the travel-stained rider reached the castle. The scene was reminiscent of John’s earlier arrival at Lisieux, but this time Richard recognized his brother on sight.

  The prince’s left hand was bandaged, and his hair had been scorched to the roots above his left ear. One side of his face was swollen, half-closing an eye. He hobbled badly, but only because he had lost the heel of his boot. This seemed to upset him as much as his injuries, and he quickly lowered himself into a vacant chair.

  The main hall at Loches was a damp, rectangular chamber, its walls lined with peeling plaster. Today, it was crowded with knights and vassal barons, all of whom had responded to the king’s clarion-call. Fresh trouble had broken out along the eastern border of Aquitaine, and Richard was determined to suppress the insurrection before it gathered strength.

  John’s arrival – and his condition – put an end to the council of war, though the barons did not disperse. They knew John had been ensconced at Rouen, and they wanted to learn why he was here, looking like this. They were intrigued by his injuries, for they could think of no creature on earth that was fast enough to out-run Softsword.

  Slumped in his chair, John mumbled, ‘I came straight to you, brother. I wanted you to hear it from my own lips first.’

  ‘Get him some wine,’ Richard said. ‘And a physician. God’s legs, boy, you’ve been wrestling with a demon. If you would rather wait until you’re rested—’

  ‘No, you must hear what happened.’

  Richard nodded, then was left to prompt. ‘Well, what’s transpired?’

  John squinted at the barons. He had not expected to deliver his speech in public, but he could see they would not be dismissed. There were several of the assembly he knew, but none he liked, so he addressed himself directly to his brother. ‘Prepare yourself,’ he said, ‘though my looks should have warned you. Rouen is lost.’