The Devil is Loose

by The Devil is Loose (retail) (epub)

  He had lost his bird’s bill cap en route, but Hadwisa’s two hundred marks had enabled him to buy a wide-brimmed pilgrim’s hat, an ideal disguise now that he was back in the same duchy as the Lionheart.

  He came along the path and called quietly to his mother, and they stared at each other without recognition. Eleanor was seventy-six years of age, thin and brittle, her eyes large in their sockets. And John, who was just thirty-one, seemed to have lost weight in sympathy. He had heard that King Richard had called off the hunt and was now worried by John’s disappearance. Richard’s fury had once again been replaced by fraternal concern, but John was too terrified to rely on rumour.

  His mother would know if it was safe to surrender to the Lionheart. He should have come to her first of all, he realized that now. She would have pacified Richard and calmed John’s fears and brought them together, the last of her sons. He should never have bothered Wife Hadwisa, nor let her enjoy such a vindictive triumph. And the visit to Pembroke – Well, he’d been given the means to return to Normandy, but it was an odd place from which to cross the Channel. If it had not been for the stony Fitz Renier, he felt sure he could have secured a letter from Isabel. But no matter. He should have come straight to Fontevrault and Eleanor.

  He let his hat spiral to the path and they embraced gently, each concealing the distress they felt for the other’s starved appearance. ‘Thyme and hissop,’ Eleanor said. ‘Now’s the season to plant them. It’s good soil here; one can grow almost anything. We use the hyssop to give an aroma to the holy water. And in cooking. Nothing’s wasted within these walls. You’d be surprised what we can do with things the world throws away.’

  John was not sure if there was a double meaning to her words, but they seemed to apply to his own predicament. He took the stick, followed Eleanor’s directions and preceded her along the path, digging the holes, waiting for her to drop in the seeds, now from this bag, now from that, then refilling the holes.

  ‘I have been in England,’ he said. ‘You must have heard about the letters, how Philip betrayed me to Richard. I went to see Hadwisa, but she’d have no more of me.’

  ‘Did that surprise you? She has been waiting for years to hear that her marriage is annulled. You are cousins, remember. Or would you have divorced her on some other grounds?’

  ‘For Alais?’

  ‘It’s what you said.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Events ran away with me. I have not been in control of my own destiny.’ He flinched as Eleanor clamped a bony hand on his wrist.

  ‘Events never outstripped you, John, and you know it. Richard is one for the sudden, aimless gesture, but not you. You have always known what you were doing, and why. You created the events, but you made a poor job of it. As you’re doing now, the holes aren’t evenly spaced.’ She relaxed her grip, and they went on along the path, warmed by the sun as it vaulted the high stone wall.

  He spent most of the morning with her, planting and talking, gradually allowing her to peel away the layers of excuse and justification. At one point, he accused her of loving him less than Richard, and she immediately agreed. ‘I’m a bitch with two grown puppies. Richard has become the hunting hound, but you still prefer to gnaw bones in front of the fire. And savage your brother, when his back is turned. Do I owe you love for that?’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you never gave me the guidance—’

  ‘To go where, in God’s name, to go where? Richard was always the leader, as your bastard brother Geoffrey was always the most intelligent. But you, with wit and cunning and the ability to disarm, where did you wish to go? Into bed with whores and serving girls; into the shop that sold fine clothes, for which, hopefully, someone else would pay.’

  ‘You make it sound so simple.’

  ‘Space the holes. No, it was never simple, but it was never as difficult as you like to think.’ She took the stick from him, then leaned on it, and let the seed bags hang by draw-strings from her waist. ‘I knew how it had been for you, always in Richard’s shadow. I know how much you wanted some sunlight of your own, and why not? But you were given the sun when Richard bestowed on you those seven counties in England, and the fief of Mortain, and Heaven knows what else. He made you independent, and did so against the general advice, but did you thank him for it? No. You thought that, if so much was so easily come by, there might be more, and you confused his generosity with weakness.’

  She paused, then decided to say what was on her mind. ‘I don’t know which came first, John, your jealousy of Richard, or your hatred of yourself. But I do know that things were made too easy for you when you were young. Oh, you can look affronted, but it’s true. You were not given anything, I’m not saying you were, but no demands were made of you.’

  ‘Agreed,’ John said. ‘I was not given anything. Not even guidance. But I was always served second at the table, and brought out to admire Richard’s prowess on a horse, or his unerring accuracy with a crossbow. You quote his gift of lands to me, but what use is a ship to someone who has never seen the sea? I may have wit and cunning, but when was I ever encouraged to use them? And when did you ever admonish Richard for calling me boy? You never thought to, did you, my lady? It seemed the obvious title. What else was I, but boy John?’

  ‘I heard from the king recently,’ Eleanor said. ‘He wants you with him again.’

  ‘Did he say why? Is he going to banish me, or is he embarrassed that the world knows I live in fear of him?’

  ‘It’s enough that he forgives you,’ Eleanor said tartly. ‘In his place, I might not.’

  ‘In his place? But you are in his place! You were never anywhere else.’ He kicked a scattering of earth from the path, then asked, ‘Are my lands to be restored to me?’

  ‘He made no mention of it. He wants you with him, and offers you the guidance you say I never gave. The Earl of Pembroke has agreed to take charge of you.’ Her tone changed, and she implored him to accept. ‘It will be a fresh start for you. Find your brother and make your peace with him, then be advised by Marshal. Please, my son, please, before we – those of us who are left – before we destroy our own house.’

  ‘Under Marshal,’ John mused. ‘That’ll be a cat-and-dog affair. I remember trading insults with him during Richard’s coronation. And I suppose des Roches will be there, to push me about.’

  ‘Des Roches is dead,’ Eleanor told him. ‘He went blind quite quickly, but he kept it secret. Anyway, long enough to fool his friends and ride with them into a skirmish. They say that the Frenchman who killed him was so horrified to discover he had slain a blind man, that he exchanged his armour for a scrip and staff, and has gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. I imagine he has a hat like yours.’

  There was too much sincerity in the story for John to put up further resistance. He nodded wearily and asked where Richard was to be found.

  ‘He’s at Château Gaillard,’ Eleanor said. ‘He seems to have made his home there, as mine is here.’ She touched John’s sleeve with the tips of her fingers, and managed a semblance of the smile that had so many times won her her way. ‘If you want to regain his favour, compliment his castle.’

  Chapter Ten

  The Arrow That Flieth by Day

  April 1198 – April 1199

  The prow section was complete; a small fortress in itself, with its five towers and triangular bailey. Work had progressed apace on the main section and, by the end of April, a well had been sunk through three hundred feet of solid rock, and the first water was hauled up in a leather bucket.

  King Richard was invited to taste it. He lifted the bucket to his lips, twisted his face in an expression of disgust and told the workmen the water was tainted. They’d have to start again, twenty yards to the north. For an instant they blanched at his decision, then, as he swung the bucket high in the air, spraying water across the inner face of the wall, they roared with relief and thanked God he’d been joking.

  John arrived, to be clasped in his brother’s suffocating embrace. ‘All is
forgotten,’ Richard boomed. ‘You’re back and safe, and you’ve been punished enough. Here, arm-in-arm, that’s it, come and see Gaillard. Marshal’s due in soon from patrol. He’s promised to take care of you. You look wasted away, boy. We’ll get some roast lamb into you. They breed good meat around here. You see those pigs? They mark the perimeter of the keep. Nearly fifty feet across. And we’re having another wall built around it, and a moat between. The gates will be, wait, let’s get down there and you can see for yourself…’

  Still boy, John thought, still boy.

  He accompanied his brother on a tour of the massive, triple-walled stronghold. They climbed steps and stairs, balanced precariously on the unfinished ramparts, scaled ladders that had been roped to the inside of the towers. John was shown the island, with its watchtower, and the fortified town of Les Andelys, and the long, castellated wall that linked the inner banks of the river. He remembered what Eleanor had told him, rehearsed his compliments, then said, ‘It has your mark on it. It’s the most confident fortress I’ve ever seen.’

  The word pleased the king, though he could not resist commenting, ‘That’s because you never came East with me. If you’d seen Krak des Chevaliers… Still, you’re right, it’s a manifestation of my own confidence in Normandy. Its name implies it.’

  John nodded and suggested some architectural feature that he knew Richard would reject. It gave the king the opportunity to launch into another lecture, then add, ‘I’m glad you’re showing an interest. I thought it would be beyond you.’

  ‘That I’d be too stupid to see why it’s the way it is?’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Not stupid, no. Ignorant.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ John murmured, ‘that’s a better way to put it.’

  Marshal arrived with a cavalcade of Norman barons, the leaders of the various patrols, and Richard presented them with due ceremony. He told John he was being placed in the hands of a proven champion, and should obey Marshal in everything. Then he told Marshal that he was being entrusted with the care of his beloved brother and that the past was forgotten; John would be a most receptive pupil.

  A pupil, John thought. I once controlled the entire southwest of England, and was Lord of Ireland and Count of Mortain. And now he speaks of me as a pupil. A boy pupil, of course.

  Nevertheless, he swore obedience to Marshal and they exchanged a formal kiss of fealty. As they moved apart, Marshal said, ‘That was a long ride you made to Pembroke, prince. I trust you sent back the boat.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ John retorted. ‘You are going to make a soldier of me, aren’t you, not a sailor?’

  ‘Well,’ Marshal said, ‘that’s an ideal. But I’m going to try.’ They gazed at each other until Richard intervened to lead Marshal away and hear his account of the patrols. The barons went with them, leaving John on the plateau, looking around at the half-grown walls.

  * * *

  King Philip’s spies reported that, when Château Gaillard was finished, it might well prove impregnable.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he remarked. ‘The Lionheart is too boastful. I could take it if it were made from hammered iron.’

  The observation was relayed to Richard, and his reply recorded by his delighted clerks.

  ‘Tell King Philip he is too optimistic. I could hold it if it were made from patted butter.’

  * * *

  In all honesty, Marshal did not believe he had been excessively harsh with the prince. For one thing, the warlord was nearly fifty-three years old, and had never made John do what he, himself, could not. For another, he was kept in constant check by King Richard, who demanded regular progress-reports.

  How well could John tilt at the quintain? Did he catch the shield square on, or did the wooden arm swing round and clout him on the neck? Was he more respectful towards his peers and elders, or did he still love to let slip a sarcastic comment? Was he awake bright and early, or did it require a fanfare to get him going? And how adept was he with the sword, how patient with petitioners, how well-versed in the law? Was he growing in stature, or did Marshal’s expression mirror his failure? Their failure, for, if the pupil had failed, so had the tutor. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps the tutor was at fault.

  ‘Stop there,’ Marshal rapped. ‘Don’t be carried away by your own delusions. If you suspect I cannot school him, give him to someone else. I could almost request it, if it did not offend my pride. But you have known me too long, king, to think me incapable of instruction. It is not that I cannot teach him. It is simply that he will not be taught. What is his latest complaint?’

  ‘That you made him ride in the full heat of summer, without a drop of water, then forced him at sword-point to find water for his horse. He was kept dry all day, he says, even when he was in sight of a river.’

  Marshal was genuinely surprised. ‘You find that worthy of complaint? How many times have you ridden beneath the searing sun of Palestine, only to find that the Moslems have filled the wells with rocks or filth? And then who comes first, Richard Lionheart? Who first gets the water in the flasks? You know the horse must be watered, so it can still carry its weakened rider. And this is Normandy, not the salt deserts of Palestine!’

  ‘Very well. Your point’s taken. You asked what he’d said, and I—’

  ‘I asked for his latest complaint, not when he had last raised a thirst! By God, we must have some balance here, or he’ll be telling you he wants a servant to fan away the flies.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard said, angry in all directions. ‘Yes, the point is made. Just do your best with him, that’s all I’m asking.’

  Marshal allowed him the last word, nodded curtly and went away. Richard pitted his right hand against his left, bruising them both. Marshal was right, of course, if uncompromising. It was a pity that John’s last complaint had come to mind, for it was a weak one, and indefensible. But, somehow it had sounded worse, the way John had told it, driven on under the pitiless sun by a man who despised him. Richard had felt protective towards the gasping prince, and had imagined him with a swollen tongue, his skin blackened by the sun, lolling in his saddle. But Marshal was right again, for the image was of Palestine, not the summer fields of Normandy.

  Perhaps it was not the tutor, after all, but the pupil…

  * * *

  When John reached breaking point, he snapped in silence. He had now undergone almost a year’s instruction and, in that time, he had lodged countless complaints with the king, who had acted on none of them. Worse, John had twice appealed for the restitution of his lands. On the last occasion he had heard Richard laugh, then watched him shake his head and hold up a hand, fingers splayed.

  ‘Five years, if you’re the man I hope you are.’

  ‘Five years to what?’

  ‘To restitution, John, that’s what. You convince me you’re worthy to govern, and I’ll give you all the lands you want. But you have fooled me too often in the past. There’s no one so sanctimonious as a felon-turned-friar. Nor one so suspicious as a man whose beliefs have been shattered. I’ve told you often enough in the past, you’re not evil, you’re weak and wayward. But your lies about King Philip – they cut me deeply. And then your letters to him, in which you described me as gross and bestial – those cut across the cuts. I opened my heart to you, young John. I thought you and I, well, that you would understand. I felt some—’ He rocked his head from side to side in an attempt to recapture his dream ‘—some affection for the Frenchman, you had no right to pervert it. Nor to turn my admissions against me, as you did. I made myself vulnerable, but I shall not do so again.’ He looked at John for a while, then recovered his spirits enough to tap the outstretched fingers. ‘Five years of hard work and loyalty, and after that we’ll see.’

  But they’d see far sooner than that, John decided. Five years of waiting at Richard’s table? Five years as one of Marshal’s liege-men, in command of nothing more important than a grain-store or a watchtower? Oh, no, not while there was a quicker way, quicker and more decisive.


  He sent word to the only person who could help, then announced that he was going to spend a few days with his mother, at Fontevrault.

  * * *

  It was a gold table, according to the first reports. Then a gold table, surrounded by figures of Christ and the Twelve Apostles. Then a complete statue on a solid gold base, the piece fashioned in the German style. It had been dug up in a field near a small castle in the Limousin district of Aquitaine, and some coins had also been unearthed, Roman coins and bracelets, a cartload of jewellery, an unparalleled treasure-trove…

  The story continued to expand until Richard could no longer contain his curiosity, and strode to his horse. He left Château Gaillard in the care of the architect Sawale and a dozen barons, then rode south, accompanied by Marshal and a hundred knights.

  ‘If it’s in Limousin, it might be on my lands. I’ve heard it’s five feet across, the table, and that the whole thing stands two of three feet high. God’s legs, it must be worth a fortune!’ He grinned at Marshal, who advised him to curb his enthusiasm.

  ‘By the time we get there, wherever it is, your trophy will be too heavy to lift. Is it really worth a three-hundred-mile ride, chasing a country rumour?’

  ‘I don’t bother you with these things,’ Richard said confidentially, ‘but I’m being pressed to settle some of the accounts for Gaillard. Imagine, the King of England, pestered by quarry-owners. The trouble is, I’ve exhausted their goodwill for miles around. If I can sell the table and pay off my debts, we’ll have the place finished before the winter. And you know how cold it was there last year. Even I felt it.’