He would not tell her that he had no choice in the matter and had come to Gloucester as a last resort.
He was somewhat irritated to be kept waiting in a nondescript downstairs room, and after a while he went in search of his wife. He had almost forgotten the layout of Gloucester, but he was too proud to seek directions from passing servants. Eventually, he found one of the men-at-arms who had been on duty at the gate, and asked the guard if Countess Hadwisa was in the solar, or her bedchamber, or—
‘Why are you out here?’ the man interrupted. ‘Weren’t you put in the room by the main door?’ He did not afford John the courtesy of a title, and barred his progress along the corridor.
John frowned at him. ‘I’m out here because I felt forgotten, that’s why. Now tell me where the countess—’
‘You’d best wait in the room,’ the guard said. ‘I’ll take you back.’ He stepped closer, forcing John to retreat, then jerked his head towards the small, bleak chamber. ‘Lady Hadwisa will be along in due course. You wait in there.’ His attitude was cold and relentless. He might have been addressing a beggar or a backward child. He ignored John’s mounting indignation, waited for him to move clear of the door, then leaned and pulled it shut. John blinked at the studded planks and felt the first tremors of doubt.
The guard would not have taken it upon himself to behave like that. He would not have dared. But there was one person who could have told him to restrain the visitor, only one, and that was Hadwisa.
He lunged forward and pulled open the door and the guard was there in the corridor, telling him it was best to do as he was asked, close the door again, you’ll keep warmer.
Without realizing it, John obeyed, then moved absently to the window, to stare out at the snow. His doubts had become fears, and he plucked nervously at the green woollen peak.
* * *
When she entered, she did not come alone. The Abbot of Gloucester was with her, and various clerks and armed knights and, at the end of the line, the bald and portly Roger Malchat, steward of the kingdom.
John realized now why he had been kept waiting and out of sight. It was a coincidence that Roger Malchat was present, but the others, the abbot and clerks and feudatories had all been sent for. It would be difficult to stage a marital reunion in front of these unsmiling witnesses.
Hadwisa looked at him, then inclined her head in the slightest gesture of recognition. He bowed in reply, but she did not wait for him to straighten up before she asked, ‘Won’t you doff your cap for me, husband?’
‘What? Oh, I bought it so recently, I—’
‘Well, that’s a relief.’
‘My lady?’
‘We know you have been disinherited, and that King Philip has furnished irrefutable proof of your treason. I expected you to come here, but in need of money. It’s a relief to know you’re not destitute, not while you can still buy such jaunty caps.’
He opened his mouth to explain, but she did not give him the chance. ‘Is it my memory, or the French diet you’ve been used to? I do believe you’ve shrunk. I remembered you as, ah, I see. New boots, and not so high in the heel. They go well with the cap, really they do.’ She looked at him, then, very slowly, expressed growing bewilderment. ‘Allow me to ask – Why are you here? I won’t embarrass you by suggesting you were drawn to me by some late-flowering love. No, don’t look so awkward. We all know that Princess Alais — How did it go, Malchat? What did my lord John write to King Philip?’
‘That Alais stirs him,’ Malchat said flatly. ‘That Prince John does not love you, but that Alais stirs him.’
‘Yes, that’s right, so we need not be mired down by talk of love.’ It was a cruel performance, but she would not be diverted. John had married her for her inheritance, and there was nothing extraordinary in that. But he had belittled her, flaunted his infidelities, derided her to his friends, squandered her money and sneered at her talk of fabrics and flowers. He had abandoned her for all the world to see, then announced that she bored him, that she did not stir him like Alais of France.
And that, too, was typical of John, for he was no more likely to marry Philip’s sister than to ride in single combat against the leader of Islam, Sultan Saladin.
It was cruel, perhaps, but it was just repayment for nine wasted years and a thousand wounding cuts.
‘What then?’ she asked. ‘Since you’re not here for reconciliation, is it for refuge?’
‘Why have you brought along these people, my lady? I would rather speak with you in private.’
‘I know you would. It’s the only thing about you that frightens me. You look worn down, husband, but I doubt you’ve lost your magic. You are a magician, you know. You can work the most amazing tricks. So these, people, they are your audience. I’m too credulous, but I don’t think your sleight of tongue will fool Malchat, or these hard-headed knights. They’ll judge why you’re here, and they’ll write it down and seal it and hold you to it, for once in your life!’ Her measured cruelty had turned to anger, and she knew it was time to stop.
But John could take it no further, for she had successfully destroyed his reasons. His mind was already racing ahead, away from Gloucester, westward across the Black Mountains to the boot-tip of Wales.
If his own wife would not help him, he would appeal to another man’s wife, a much prettier creature altogether.
* * *
Two weeks later he was faced with the same problem; no one recognized him at the gate.
Before he had left Gloucester, Hadwisa had learned of his indigence and given him two hundred marks, a second horse and a magnificent, bearskin cloak. She had told him there was no need for him to go. But, if he stayed, he must expect Richard to find him and, in all possibility, banish him from the kingdom. So which was it to be? Would he wait – in his own rooms, of course – and face the king’s retribution, or ride on into the world?
He took the money and the palfrey and the cloak and headed westward through the snow.
It had been a hard two weeks, for he had chosen to travel through some of the most inhospitable countryside in England. But it was not England now, it was Wales, and his solitary journey was chorused by the wind, and his progress marked by the drumroll of avalanches. There were wolves in the mountains, and the light seemed to fade before it ever filled the sky. Villagers gave him food and let him sleep with the horses, and asked nothing in return. Lunatics were thought to be touched by God, and he was clearly a lunatic, crossing their country in mid-winter.
And then he reached his destination, and once again there was doubt as to his identity. It was only when the grizzled Fitz Renier, far from his shrievalty of London, came down the steps that the guards stabled the horses. Things must be in a poor state in Normandy, they thought, if the king’s own brother looks this ragged.
It was only by chance that Fitz Renier and the chatelaine of Pembroke had heard of John’s disgrace. They had received no overland visitors for several weeks, but a fishing boat from Brittany had been blown far off-course, past the western tip of Cornwall and up the Welsh coast. Luck and good seamanship had guided the battered vessel into the estuary below Pembroke, and Isabel had insisted that the fishermen be entertained in the castle, while their ship was being repaired. It was not the first time she had done this, nor was it entirely selfless. She welcomed visitors, particularly if they were from Brittany or Normandy, for there was always the chance that they would have heard of a certain William Marshal, very dark-skinned, a friend of King Richard and the mighty des Roches…
They hadn’t, but they had heard of John’s treason and disappearance. Couteau-du-Beurre, isn’t that what he was called? Buttersword, or something?
Now Fitz Renier crossed the yard and, with grave formality, welcomed John to Pembroke.
‘Where have you come from, prince? Was your ship driven ashore—’
‘Gloucester,’ John said bitterly. ‘I’ve ridden from Gloucester, after a blissful reunion with my wife.’
‘You came on horseb
ack—’
‘It’s the usual mode of travel. In fact, two horses; one a Christmas gift from Hadwisa. Now, for God’s sake don’t tell me you doubt it. Nothing I say is believed these days.’’
Nothing ever was, Fitz Renier thought. But he could not entirely conceal his admiration for a man who could traverse the Black Mountains in the depths of winter. It was probably the most courageous thing Softsword had ever done.
They went into the keep, to find Isabel engaged in a noisy game with her children. The youngest, a girl, was in a crib by the fire, but the three boys were scattered about the large, square room, shouting directions at their mother. Isabel’s eyes were covered with a strip of cloth, and one glance was enough to dishearten the prince.
A guard had reported that there was a rider at the gate who claimed to be Prince John. But both Isabel and Fitz Renier had been so sure it was a lie that the lady of Pembroke had not even interrupted her game. It seemed to be a recurring pattern at the castles he visited. John here? Nonsense. It must be an impostor.
He sighed and edged towards the fire, and Fitz Renier moved unobtrusively between him and the crib.
John’s eyes widened in horror. ‘My God!’ he howled. ‘I have not come to this! I am not – harmful!’
The boys stopped in mid-yell, suddenly aware that they had a visitor. Isabel pulled the blindfold from her eyes, glanced at Fitz Renier, then at John, and sensed intuitively what had happened.
The sheriff stood, unrepentant, in front of the crib. John had halted a few feet away, and now the room blurred before his gaze. Disgrace and rejection and the rigours of the long winter journey combined to rob him of his remaining strength, and he stood in that strange, distant place, his hands loose at his sides, tears dripping from his jaw.
Still unseeing, he whispered, ‘I am not harmful, you know…’
His wild shout had brought other men into the room, but Fitz Renier waved them away. The children sidled towards their mother, and they, too, were sent off to play elsewhere. They were annoyed, because the stranger had ruined their game. Who was he, anyway, howling his harmlessness, then bursting into tears. And how comical he looked, a weeping bear with a skinny neck and a bird’s beak.
When they had gone, Isabel and Fitz Renier exchanged a glance, and the sheriff handed John a large mug of mead. It was a potent brew, warm and heady, and John shivered his thanks. His vision had cleared by now, and he made his way cautiously towards Isabel. Fitz Renier kept pace with him, but did not interfere. Perhaps he’d been wrong to shield the baby. If so, God would punish him for it. But, before he submitted to divine judgement, he’d tell God that Prince John was a strange creature, then cite his extraordinary pilgrimage across Wales. Surely even God was surprised by that.
Holding the mug down at his side, John bowed to the chatelaine. He was in no mood to judge feminine beauty, but she looked remarkably well for a woman who had borne four children.
He said, ‘My Lady de Clare… I apologize for startling you… You see… I have ridden here from Gloucester, and it is not the easiest journey, not for… for several reasons.’ He looked across at Fitz Renier, who had somehow moved into a position that protected the chatelaine without further insulting the prince.
‘I am an uninvited guest—’
‘No,’ she said, addressing him for the first time. ‘If we only saw people by invitation, we would be very far from the world. As you say, it is not the easiest journey and, whatever your reasons for making it, you are welcome to rest.’ To prevent any misunderstanding, she added, ‘Sheriff Fitz Renier is the constable here, in my husband’s absence. He has the same authority as Earl Marshal, and shares with me the administration of my husband’s lands. Also, we are both aware that you have been dispossessed, and that you chose not to remain at Rouen. But we are the only ones. So far as I know, Pembroke is otherwise in ignorance, and will remain so as long as you wish.’
Very slowly, John bowed again, spilling mead from his mug. He could not remember having heard such a delicate phrase as that; chose not to remain at Rouen. Not fled, or returned to England, or made your escape. But simply, and without accusation, chose not to remain.
John thought, when I next see Marshal – if he ever lets me within earshot – I’ll tell him he was brilliant in his choice.
The mug embarrassed him, and he set it on the table, ‘I will not over-tax your hospitality, Lady de Clare… But I have travelled this far to speak with you and, yes, I would be grateful for some food and a bed. Tomorrow, when I have put my question, or rather, when you have given your answer, I’ll be on my way again.’
‘That’s understood,’ Fitz Renier told him. ‘While there’s a reason for your visit, you’re welcome to stay. But don’t imagine you’ll turn the lady’s generosity to your advantage. And, so far as I am concerned, you are a traitor, a deserter and a coward.
‘I don’t know what force controls your actions, prince, but you are unique in this. You deserted your father, King Henry, in his hour of need, then signed the list of those who had turned against him. Later, you sided with the French against your brother, the lawful King of England, when he was fighting for God’s cause in Palestine. A few months more, and he was in that German prison, giving you the opportunity to foment insurrection in England and Normandy. A year more, and you heard he’d been released, so you deserted Philip and ran to grovel at King Richard’s feet. And now you have tried once more to defect to the enemy, and would probably have done so, had you not been crossed by the Frenchman.
‘Everything you have done has been to further your own aims, regardless of the price that others would have to pay. You have brought this present disgrace upon yourself, and, in my opinion, you have out-lived your time.’
John raised his hands to ward off the blows. ‘Christ, Fitz Renier, you’re salt on wounds! I know what I’ve done! There’s no call to engrave it. I’ll say my piece in the morning and leave. Be satisfied with that!’
Fitz Renier rewarded his outburst with a shrug. ‘You are not here for my satisfaction. You’re after some favour from Lady de Clare. But she is a gentlewoman, and I don’t want her pity aroused by any abject emotions. I may be salt in your wounds, but you inflicted them on yourself, remember that.’
John ate with them in the evening, and was given a bed for the night. In the morning he would be allowed to speak with Isabel, in private. It did not meet with Fitz Renier’s approval, but Isabel insisted.
‘I am in no danger from him. You are merciless with him, though what you said is true. He’s spent half his life working for the downfall of somebody or other, though his greatest successes have been to trap himself. Don’t worry, I shall not be swayed by his tears. But, to be honest with you, Fitz Renier, my pity is aroused. The more so, because I think I know what he wants of me, and I cannot give it.’
‘What does he want?’
‘A letter of commendation, at a guess. He’ll ask me to use my influence with Marshal, and encourage Marshal to sweet-talk the king. He will tell me how foolish he’s been, and how he was always led astray by stronger men, but that his only ambition now is to earn Richard’s forgiveness and be given a final chance to prove his worth. I may be wrong, but I cannot see why else he has come here.’
‘And why won’t you commend him to Marshal? I know I wouldn’t, but I don’t feel a twitch of pity for him.’
Isabel thought for a while before answering. John had not yet been given the opportunity to say his piece, and she did not wish to pre-judge him. But, the more she thought of it, the more certain she was that he had made the arduous journey in order to gain the king’s ear through the Lord and Lady of Pembroke.
‘There are two reasons,’ she said. ‘Firstly, because if I do ask Marshal to plead with Richard, he will do so. Not, perhaps, for John’s sake, but for mine. And I will not put him in such an invidious position. I’d have him plead for you, or Malchat, or a dozen others we know, but not for Prince John.
‘The second reason denies the existence of th
e first. If I do allow myself to be persuaded, and my husband does make the necessary overtures to the king, and Richard does show that magnanimous side of his nature, John will desert him again, sneering at his weakness, and all Marshal has worked for will be at risk.’
Fitz Renier nodded. He made no comment, but thought Lady Isabel had taken a long route to the truth. She was saying, in her own way, that John was not to be trusted, in sight or out. The sheriff could have told her that with half a breath.
Next morning, he made work for himself in the yard, while John petitioned the chatelaine. Then, as the light began to brighten over the estuary, the prince came clattering down the steps and started towards the stables. He was dressed in his bearskin cloak and peaked cap, and carried a flask of wine.
Fitz Renier glanced back, saw Isabel in the doorway of the keep, and went to join her.
‘As I said. I’ve never been so right in my life.’
‘Where’s he going now?’
‘Down to the harbour. I gave him one of our boats. Send a man down to alert the crew.’ She glanced up at the sky. ‘The sea won’t be too high today. Tell them they are to take their passenger wherever he wants to go. But don’t say who he is.’
‘You gave him his letter?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘When I refused him, he said, well, he was understandably upset, but in the end he said it was of no importance, there was another woman who would hear his appeal, much more influential.’ She saw Fitz Renier’s scowl and added, ‘His mother. He’s going to find Eleanor.’
* * *
But Eleanor of Aquitaine was no longer involved in the ways of the world. John did not reach her until early spring, where he found her in the gardens of the abbey at Fontevrault. She was stooped over, a stick in one hand, two seed bags in the other. Slowly, she edged along the flagstone path, digging a hole with the stick, tossing in a few seeds, then scraping the earth back in place.
The Devil is Loose Page 23