by Rachel Bard
Back in our chamber while I was getting dressed I told Isabella what was happening and that we’d have to leave quickly. The alarm had left her face. She seemed calm. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She obediently got out of bed and looked around for her clothes. Just then Anne knocked and came in. I left them and went to report events to my mother. She would probably scold me for not keeping the army with me.
“But,” I would tell her, “Isabella and I have made a promising start at producing an heir, just as you wished.” That would please her.
Chapter 20
Hugh le Brun
September 1200
After King Philip dismissed us so summarily we walked silently down his grand staircase and into the glare and bustle of the city. The three of us stood there a minute, unnoticed by the Parisians going about their late-afternoon business. They didn’t look too different from the citizens of Poitiers or Angoulême or any other city I’d ever been in, though there were a lot more of them. Some were neat and prim, some rough and ill-dressed, some hurrying as though late for an appointment, some dawdling as though looking for an unwary citizen whose purse might be snatched. We saw pretty women, tottering crones and boisterous drinkers making their way between taverns. None gave us a glance.
In a way, I was glad to be invisible. Geoffrey was still fuming and glowering, ready to strike the first person who dared to look at him. Ralph was hunched over, sighing like a lost soul, holding a hand to his stomach as though in pain. Ralph’s digestion always suffered when he was upset. I was betwixt the two, but more angry than discouraged. I threw an arm around Ralph’s shoulder.
“Let’s walk down to the river and look for a wineshop,” I said. “We need to decide what to do next.”
“Right,” said Geoffrey. “That’s what you need, Ralph. A dose of good red wine always helps a pain in the gut.”
We made for a narrow, crowded, dark street and headed for the glint of bright water ahead. Geoffrey led, shouldering his way through the jostling, chattering, shouting throng. Ralph and I followed close in his wake, Ralph holding his nose. These folk weren’t all well washed. The trough down the middle of the road, meant to carry garbage to the river, was clogged with foul-smelling waste, hardly disturbed by a mean trickle of water. When we emerged on the bank of the sun-dappled Seine we stopped to drink in the fresh air and look around. We marveled at the dozens of big and little boats ferrying people and goods back and forth across the river. A breeze made the water choppy, and the smaller boats bobbed about like corks.
“Makes me seasick just to look at them,” Ralph moaned.
We turned and surveyed the huddle of mean buildings that lined the narrow road above the river. Most were ramshackle, with weatherbeaten wood walls all aslant and slates missing from the roof. But here and there was a straight upstanding shop with a small, neatly swept yard. One of the nearest seemed semi-respectable and displayed a huge wine barrel by its open door.
“Come on,” Geoffrey growled. “Here’s a likely spot. Let’s go in.”
It was small, crowded and noisy. The ten or so tables were all occupied, but we finally found three seats at the end of a table in the corner. As soon as the pitcher was slammed down Geoffrey poured himself a mug and drank half of it in a gulp. Ralph took a few sips and waited anxiously for results.
I filled my mug, then asked, “How many men can we find to go with us after John?”
For a half-hour we counted and recounted the supporters we could depend on, tried to guess John’s whereabouts and likely movements, and made plans to intercept him. But at last we had to admit we needed better information. John was a wily enemy and might go off in any direction. Rather than guess where we might find him, one of us would have to go at once to Chinon, where he’d been last reported, and trace his movements from there.
I volunteered. I had to keep moving. If I sat still I’d brood over my wrongs to the point of despondency. I’d find myself remembering Isabella’s bright, laughing face, wishing I’d ever worked up the courage to kiss her, wishing I could recover the happiness of only a few months ago. But I couldn’t live in the past. I needed action, any kind of action, to fuel my anger and resolve.
While I went to Chinon, Geoffrey and Ralph would rally as large a force as they could. We agreed we’d meet in a week at Tours.
That decided, we raised our mugs in a toast to comradeship and brotherhood (by now we were a little tipsy) and Geoffrey went further.
“Death to King John!” he roared.
A few drinkers who heard this cheered. So did a strapping bargeman who had just come in.
“Let me get a cup in my hand and I’ll drink to that!” he called to Geoffrey. He began edging his way through the crowded room toward our corner.
“And down with King Philip!” Geoffrey shouted, encouraged by his audience’s enthusiasm. “A man who doesn’t keep faith with his vassals doesn’t deserve to be king!”
Ralph, emboldened by a quiescent stomach, added his two sous’ worth. “And while we’re at it, down with this filthy, stinking city of Paris! I’ll be heartily glad to shake the dust of your town off my feet!”
I heard a muttering from the men at the next table, then the whole room erupted in angry cries and raised fists. The bargeman was no longer eager to drink with us and joined the chorus. “Who do you think you are, outlanders, to come here and insult our king and our city?” He was almost upon us.
Geoffrey would have gladly taken him on and the whole crowd too, but Ralph and I saw the wisdom of escape. I’d noticed a small door behind our bench. I pressed it. It opened. “Save your blows for your real enemies!” I said to Geoffrey. Ralph and I pushed him through the door, then tumbled after him onto the muddy path above the sullen river, now reflecting a gray sky. Nobody followed us. It began to rain. We sloshed on until we found the stable where we’d left our horses and grooms, and were off.
So as it turned out we shook not the dust, but the mud of Paris off our feet. And glad we were to be out of the city and heading for our familiar countryside. We rode hard and fast, stopping only for a few hours of sleep. Toward dusk on the second day we saw the massive tower of Chartres Cathedral rising from the plain, a huge dark presence silhouetted against the overcast western sky—funereal black on leaden gray. I shivered, fearing it was an omen of bad luck to come. The immense shape grew more awesome the closer we came. Speechless with wonder, we rode slowly through the humble town until we reached the small square in front of the cathedral. We reined in our horses and bent our necks back to look up at the soaring spire. None of us had been to Chartres but we knew its fame. We’d heard, too of the great fire that had destroyed much of the still uncompleted structure a few years ago.
“I’d have thought there’d be only a pile of rubble," said Ralph. “But that one great tower still stands, and they’ve made a good start on rebuilding the other.” Just then the sun, nearly set, emerged from the clouds and sent beams of light to flood the cathedral façade. The stained glass windows gleamed like amethysts and rubies. I took heart. Perhaps God was on our side after all.
At Chartres we separated. Ralph would go north to his castle in Normandy, where he’d try to rally his vassals. Geoffrey would head for Poitiers and Lusignan, where most of our clan lived. And I’d go to Chinon and pick up the trail of my quarry.
Isabella 21-40
Chapter 21
Anne Beaufort
September 1200
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
The enemy could be anywhere. Look around you. Above all, hurry! Catch up with our army. Maybe they’re around that next bend.
The need for haste was on everybody’s mind while we rode toward Cherbourg, that September of 1200. John was as jumpy as a bear at a baiting. Isabella was cross at having to leave the comfort and warmth of Fontevraud Abbey so precipitately. I was almost as cross, and fully as nervous as John.
The first day or so weren’t so frantic. We rode along the Vienne, past patchy little farms and through villages t
hat huddled close to the river. In such open country an ambush would have been unlikely. Our pace was fast but controlled. In the forefront rode John’s heralds and six of the dozen knights who guarded us. Then came John with Isabella on his left. Isabella’s maid Hortense and I were close behind them. Behind us were John’s personal servants and the beasts that bore the baggage. Then, in an orderly column in the rear, rode the rest of the knights, all armorclad in mail hauberks and with their squires at their sides.
It was strange to see signs of ordinary life going on while we were under such pressure. We passed a huddle of huts along the road, not even a village, where an old woman was calmly and deliberately spreading grapes and plums on a cloth to dry in the sun. I almost envied her. What would it be like, I wondered, to live so oblivious of the deadly games of kings?
On the third morning we left the open meadows. Lead-gray clouds hung low over the land and even the horses seemed depressed, trotting stolidly along with heads lowered. We rode through a forest of ancient oaks whose branches met and entwined over our heads. What daylight there was barely filtered through. The road was still damp from recent rain. There was no sound except the soft plop, plop of the horses’ hooves and the muleteers’ cries, urging their animals on.
Riding just behind John and Isabella, I saw how he’d turn in his saddle to make sure all was well behind him. Then he’d peer into the forest as though expecting a shower of arrows to fly out. He clutched his cloak about him. He sank his chin into his high fur collar and pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his forehead. His eyes darted from side to side like those of a cornered ferret.
When Isabella glanced at him in concern he didn’t meet her eyes. His fearfulness was catching. Before long I too felt uneasy in this gloomy tunnel. We were rushing along like rabbits pursued by the hounds, with no idea where the hounds were. Then it began to rain in earnest. John became even more fidgety. Isabella put her hand on his arm. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I clearly heard his snappish reply.
“Afraid? What am I afraid of? I’m not afraid, I’m cautious. If we aren’t watchful we could be attacked at any moment.”
He barked at the knight riding ahead of him, “Go fetch Sir William.” I supposed this was William de Cantilupe, an old Crusader and one of John’s stewards. I’d never met him but I’d heard of his reputation as a brave warrior and a shrewd leader.
Sir William, who’d been riding in the vanguard, appeared almost at once. He looked considerably more composed than his master. He’d hardly arrived when John accosted him.
“Do you have any news, Sir William? Have you sent spies ahead to La Lude and Le Mans? Could the Lusignans reach Le Mans before we do? Do you think they’ll wait to attack us there?” His voice rose in pitch with each question. “Or maybe they’re behind us! Do you think they’re hiding in the forest? They’re just the types to jump out on us when we least suspect it.” By now he was almost whining, like a child who feels the world is treating him unfairly.
Sir William waited impassively for John to finish.
“If there had been anything new to report, my liege, I would have told you at once. We’ve sent men to scout ahead, of course. But I doubt very much if the Lusignans are in Le Mans. That’s your city and has been since last year. Nobody would let your enemies in the gates. I believe they must be still behind us. We have loyal men posted along the way who are keeping a good lookout. They’ll send word quickly if they see any sign that we’re being pursued. Also, as you doubtless remember, we’ve sent men out to spread false tales of what route we’re taking. Now I must get back to my post.”
John pulled his collar even higher over his face and sat hunched in his saddle, watching as Sir William rode back toward the head of the column.
Isabella brightened.
“Well, Sir William says we’re in no immediate danger. That’s good news, isn’t it, John?”
He looked at her as though she’d awakened him from a dream, and raised his hand in signal to resume the march.
But before we’d gone a dozen yards we heard the thud of rapid hoofbeats. I was convinced a party of horsemen was about to overtake us. Sir William wheeled and rode to the rear, calling to the knights to follow him. They drew their swords even as they spurred their horses. After a moment’s hesitation John rode after them.
Isabella and I waited, pressing closely together. I could see how tensely she gripped her reins with one hand, the wooden pommel of her saddle with the other. I peered toward the rear, but I could see nothing except a distant crowd of milling knights, servants, pack horses and grooms. Rain continued to fall relentlessly.
“Anne, it must be Hugh. Do you think I should ride back and beg him to let us go on?”
“No, I don’t. Let’s just wait and see. Your husband’s knights are likely to be a match for whoever it is.” I hoped I sounded calmer than I felt.
After what seemed ages but must have been only a few minutes, John came riding back, followed by a half-dozen knights. He was holding his head high. His hand rested on the gilded scabbard of his sword. Timidity had been replaced by cocky self-confidence. What a strange man, I thought.
He smiled broadly at Isabella.
“Why so pale, my love? There’s nothing to fear. These stout men are routiers my mother sent to help guard us.”
I knew what routiers were: mercenaries, soldiers for hire. Count Aymer had sometimes employed them when he couldn’t round up enough of his own vassals to go on some foray. They were swarming all over Europe these days looking for employment, what with no big wars to keep them occupied. The new arrivals looked uncouth but brawny. If Eleanor had engaged them she’d probably paid them well, after making sure they were trustworthy.
“They do look stout, John. I’m greatly relieved to see them. But can only six men, no matter how strong, really help if we’re ambushed?”
“Nonsense, Isabella. Those pitiful Lusignans probably have no more than a dozen of their henchmen in their party. We’re more than a match for them now.”
He called William de Cantilupe and his other steward, Robert de Thorneham, and told them we’d halt at Château-la-Vallière, just ahead, though it was not yet noon.
“My vassal, the Duke of Vaujours, will be glad to give us food and shelter.”
“I don’t think that’s wise, my liege,” said Sir William. “We’re still some days away from Le Mans. It would be folly to delay now. We won’t be safe until we’re within the walls.” He looked as stern as the priest who’d taught me Latin and who scolded me when I made a mistake.
“True, a stay at Château-la-Vallière would be well deserved,” said Robert de Thorneham. I sensed he knew his master would rather be mollified than preached at. “We’ve been going at such a pace, we’re all near exhaustion. But think how relieved we’ll be when we reach Le Mans, where we’re very likely to find your army waiting for us. As you know, my lord King, once we’re reunited with them we can proceed at a more leisurely pace and stop when you wish.”
John nodded and muttered a grumpy “Very well.” We all took our places and the whole procession set off once more. At least the rain had stopped.
The journey seemed endless. We rode through beech forests showing such brilliant gold that they seemed burnished with sunlight though the sky was still a lowering gray. We rode past silent lakes bordered by green-black pines. When I drank in their pungent, bracing aroma I sat a little straighter in my saddle. Sometimes we rode for hours without seeing anyone, then came out to fields tawny with ripening grain. We’d see men with worn, brown faces who rested on their scythes to watch us. We rode through little villages that at first looked uninhabited. Grimy women with thin children trailing them came out of their hovels to watch. I wondered if they had any idea who we were. They gazed at us expressionless, without so much as a bobbing head or a shout of recognition that this was the party of their liege and his queen.
For three more days we pressed on. We stopped every night with some vassal who had to scramble to feed and l
odge this large party that descended on him. Exhausted after a hard day’s ride, we’d sit down for supper, glad to be dry and out of the saddle. John and Isabella always left the gathering early, holding hands, with eyes only for each other. At first I offered to help Isabella prepare for bed, but she told me she wouldn’t need me, that she could manage with her maid. It wasn’t hard to guess, from the way she looked at John and the way they sought each other’s company, that married life was agreeing with her. I was happy for her and tried to forget my misgivings about John’s character.
At last the square bulk of the Cathedral of Saint-Julien came into view, looming above the high walls of Le Mans. We crossed the River Sarthe by a graceful arched bridge and began the ascent to the city. At the top John stopped, looked around and became more loquacious than he’d been for days.
“See those walls, Isabella? The Romans built them. That’s how old Le Mans is. They knew what they were doing, those Romans, placing so many lookout towers around the city. It would have been hard for an enemy to get near it. Still is. My grandfather Geoffrey was Count of Maine. He lived here and my father was born here. He loved this city, so do I. We’ll stop at the palace of the counts of Maine.”
“I hope it’s not like Chinon,” said Isabella. I’d been hoping the same thing, remembering how grim that other castle of John’s family had been.
“Like Chinon? Of course not. No, this is a palace right on the town square, not a fortified castle. It’s true there was an old castle, and a fine sturdy one it was too. But I had to knock it down last year when it looked like King Philip was going to take the city.”
Was this the same John who’d been beside himself with fear just a few days ago? If he could go about tearing down castles maybe he wasn’t the lily-livered coward I’d thought. Or was this merely blustery John, bragging about something that might or might not be true?