r 165 een's love of jewels. "I suppose," she said, "that it was a great mis£ f°r J°hn *° have ever let Hugh de Lusignan buy his freedom." l^ill winced. When John had decided to set the de Lusignans at ibertV' ne'd encountered opposition from an unexpected source, his Other. Eleanor had been adamantly against the idea, insisting that the .^e to make peace with Hugh de Lusignan had been before John's margee to Isabella, that it was now too late. Will had not agreed with her, nwilling to believe it was ever too late to right a wrong; while he cared not a whit for Hugh de Lusignan's sense of injury, he hoped a conciliatory gesture on John's part would favorably impress other Norman lords wavering in their loyalty. Convinced that they could keep Hugh in check by demanding hostages for his good faith, Will had added his voice to those arguing for release. Hugh and Geoffrey de Lusignan had been freed five months after their capture at Mirebeau, had at once joined William des Roches and the rebel barons of Brittany and Anjou, leaving Will a legacy of guilt out of all proportion to his small share of the responsibility. "The de Lusignans offered up such an extravagant sum for their freedom that John could not afford to turn it down," he said defensively, "not with so pressing a need for money." "I know; John explained it all to me at the time. But shall I tell you what I think, Will? That John was goaded as much by his mother's opposition as he was swayed by the money. It's said she can be right clever at getting men to do her bidding, but with John, she's ever been brutally blunt. They had a fearful row about it, and I think that was when John truly made up his mind to set Hugh free, to prove to Eleanor that he was in the right." Will stared at her, all at once seeing Isabelle with new insight. John had never been known for constancy, and Will's expectations for his marriage were minimal. Greatly to his surprise, John's passion for his girl-wife had not been slaked by possession; Isabelle was his constant companion and bedmate on his travels around his realm. Will had attributed Isabelle's continuing bewitchment over his brother to her uncommon beauty. Now he suddenly wondered if he'd underestimated her. "I think," he said slowly, "that you do content John so well because you do understand him so well," stating the obvious with such a solemn sense of discovery that Isabelle had to stifle a giggle. "I doubt that anyone understands John all that well! But I do know when he is troubled. I truly think he'd not long mourn the loss of his continental domains in and of themselves. He has ever seen England as 'he heart of his inheritance, has oft told me how easy it is to safeguard
166 an island kingdom, how difficult to defend a far-flung empire. But t^ empire was Richard's, and so he cannot bear to let it go." Isabelle leanej forward, put her hand on Will's sleeve. "I would help him if I could, bm I do not know how. I was so hoping that you did," she said, giving VVni a look of such irresistible appeal that he felt a lump rise in his throat. He'd wondered if Isabelle loved his brother, was pleased now t conclude that she did. And yet he felt a certain surprise, too. He had l^ illusions about John, knew what John had done and what he was capa. ble of doing, but the bond of brotherhood was one to last from the cradle to the grave. The bond between husband and wife he believed to be more fragile. Women were known to be the lesser sex; Will thought they were also the purer sex, softer of heart and more innocent of mind than men. As Isabelle lay with John in their vast marital bed, was her sleep never disturbed by uneasy thoughts of Arthur? Will could not be sure, of course, that the rumors were true, that Arthur was dead. But his suspicions were strong enough to keep him from confronting his brother, from insisting that John tell him what he'd rather not know. It was not that he was shocked; while he would never have chosen himself to claim Arthur's life, he recognized John's right to do so. Treason warranted death. Scriptures said that plainly, said rebellion was as the sin of witchcraft. And Arthur had remained defiantly unrepentant. Will had been present when John confronted Arthur at Falaise in January 1203, had come away from that turbulent, ugly encounter with the grim realization that Arthur was doomed; if he would not bend, he'd have to be broken. The French King had been putting about lurid rumors for months, contending that Arthur had been murdered in a number of grisly waysdrowned, stabbed, blinded and castratedrumors that found ready believers among Arthur's Bretons, but few in England, where Arthur's fate was a matter of supreme indifference. But that past Easter, John had paid a second visit to Arthur, then being held at Rouen Castle, and soon after, rumors again began to circulate that the sixteen-year-old Duke of Brittany had been put to death at his uncle's command, some even said by John's own hand. That last, Will dismissed as nonsense; he knew John too well, knew his brother had ever preferred to keep distance between himself and his darker misdeeds. Yet the sinister silence that descended over Rouen Castle after that Easter visit convinced Will that these rumors were well grounded m reality, and he could only wonder at John's genius for self-sabotageHowever deserved was Arthur's death, it was still a drastic, draconian step to take, and even a political novice like Will understood that it had to be done in the fullest light of high noonor not at all. "Will. . . why are you staring at me like that?" Will blinked, lost Arthur's ghost in the deep blue of Isabelle's eye5
267 vvas truly a sweet lass, he thought, and not for the world would he her lose her faith in John "It gladdens my heart to know that you are r>y in your marriage, and I shall indeed do what I can to ease John's discontent " "Why would I not be happy in my marriage7" Isabelle echoed, surged "John denies me nothing Richard's poor Berengana might well u ye been invisible, for the notice people took of her But when I enter a hamber, all conversation hushes, all eyes are upon mebecause peole know John cares whether I am content or not Oh, I grant you he is ot always an easy man to live with, has tempers and black moods and hadowy places in his soul where I cannot follow But we'll be wed four years come August, Will, and not once has my womb quickened with ljfe Yet not once has John ever reproached me for that How many barren wives could say as much7" Will was both embarrassed and touched by the unexpected intimacy of this glimpse she'd just given him into her married life "I am sure you'll conceive in God's time, lass," he said awkwardly, and Isabelle smiled "So am I," she assured him, sounding faintly amused "But it is kind of you to try to ease my mind You are a good man, Will, you truly are John John is good to me," said with just enough emphasis on the last two words to tell Will that she was not so innocent as he'd first thought, as he'd like to believe He looked at her, at the wide-set eyes utterly clear and untroubled by ghosts, at the mouth so soft and sweetened by laughter, and decided he must have misread her meaning "You must not fret," he said soothingly "I'll stay as long as John has need of me, I promise you " "IT is your move, John," William de Braose prompted, sounding so smug that John gave him a cold stare before resuming his very deliberate study of the chessboard Will shifted in his seat He was a mediocre chess player at best, but even he could see that John had allowed himself to be maneuvered into an utterly untenable position That realization gave Will almost as much exasperation as it did John, for Isabelle had not exaggerated, he'd rarely seert his brother in such a grim mood, a mood not likely to be improved ty a loss to William de Braose De Braose was as ungracious a winner as John was a loser Already there was gleeful anticipation in his grin He w°uld win, then magnanimously waive payment of their wager stakes, gloating thinly guised as jest, Will had seen de Braose win before Will had known de Braose for some ten years, for he was one of the evv men who'd managed to be friendly with both Richard and John
168 Will had watched disapprovingly as de Braose insinuated his way j^ John's inner circle, becoming, in time, one of John's favorite carousine companions. He'd never lacked for confidenceas shy as a timber vvolf as scrupulous as a Barbary piratebut Will had noted an increasing familiarity in his friendship with John, a familiarity that Will found offensive, that seemed to go beyond their mutual pursuit of what de Braose jokingly called "the three aitches . . . hunting, hawking, and 'horing." A familiarity that Will had first noticed in the past year, in the weeks after John's Eastertide visit to Rouen. Will was not alone in his critical appraisal of the ch
ess game's unhappy consequences. Joanna knew how her father hated to lose. Lord de Braose would revel in his victory, she knew, and Papa would be in il] humor for the rest of the night. It was not fair. Papa was so disquieted, much in need of distraction. Joanna thought it only just that he should be able to forget his troubles for a few hours. She knew suddenly what she must do, took a moment or so to nerve herself for it. Rising, she reached for a bowl of candied fruit, carried it across the chamber to John. "Would you like a fig, Papa?" she asked, and then bumped into the trestle table, upsetting the chessmen and knocking the board onto the floor. "Papa, I'm so sorry! I truly do not know how I could have been so clumsy." "Divine Providence?" John suggested, straight-faced, but his eyes were laughing. "That is one explanation, I suppose," William de Braose said, favoring them both with a sour smile, and Joanna saw that he, too, knew her action had been deliberate. But John was looking at her with such amusement, such affectionate approval that nothing else mattered to her. She groped hastily for a topic of conversation likely to hold his interest, to exclude de Braose. "Did you hear any uncommon appeals today, Papa?" she asked, knowing as soon as she spoke that her question was inspired, for John shared his father's fascination with the law. He genuinely enjoyed hearing court appeals, arguing points of law with his justices, issuing writs to right perceived wrongs, and he saw to it that the Exchequer published his itinerary weeks in advance so that petitioners might know where he'd be on a given day, so they could appeal to the royal court for justice denied in the shire courts. "Indeed I did, Joanna. A youth not much older than you, calling himself Roger of Stainton. He'd been amusing himself by throwing stones across a stream. By ill luck, one struck a young girl. She died and he was sentenced to be hanged." |
169 "Shall you pardon him, Papa7" Joanna asked, pleased when John Jed "How could I not7 It was death by misadventure, a man should not r for that" John paused, looking up as an usher came into the han2 * ii'"1- J r ' o r chamber "Your Grace, a courier has just arrived from Fontevrault " John tensed, his good humor chilled into icy wanness He'd been , acjing this, his mother's reaction to the loss of Castle Gaillard, Richj's pride and joy, the castle he'd boasted he could hold even if the alls were made of butter John did not want to be reminded of this by Eleanor, even if she did not reproach him directly, he did not doubt her disappointment would echo between every line It was with considerable reluctance, then, that he said curtly, "Send him in " The monk was young and visibly ill at ease The black habit of the Benedictines camouflaged the grime of his journey, but the parchment he clutched was soiled from much handling, slashed and threaded through with a braided grey cord that might once have been white He knelt, thrust the letter at John as if he longed only to be rid of it John looked down at the wax sealing the cord ends, it was intact, but unfamiliar "This is not my mother's seal " "The letter is from the Abbess Matilda, Your Grace She bade me tell you " The monk swallowed, no longer meeting John's eyes "Your lady mother she is dead, my liege " John heard his daughter cry out, plaintively denying death with an indrawn breath that broke on a sob No one else spoke John found himself staring at the monk's clasped hands, they were rawboned, knuckles roughened, nails caked with dirt Never had he been so aware of detail, he saw a sheen on the man's habit, where kneeling had worn the material thin, saw the damp splotches under his armpits, the telltale signs of sweat, of fear But he felt nothing, only a stunned sense of disbelief Utterly unnerved by John's silence, the monk squeezed his knees tightly together to stop his trembling, and stammered, "It it did happen on Thursday last, soon after Vespers But it may comfort you, my lord, to know that hers was a peaceful and Christian passing She died m God's grace, with our lady Abbess and Abbot Luke of Torpenay at her bedside, he'd been with her when your brother King Richard u'ed, you may recall, and when she knew her end was nigh, she sent to St Mary's Abbey for him " Still John said nothing, and the monk drew several shallow breaths, Peaking now almost at random "It was your mother's wish that she be Uned at Fontevrault with King Richard and your sister, the Lady
170 Joanna. Our Abbess saw that it was done. I hope that meets with y0u approval, my liege ..." "Did she leave any word . . . any message for me?" "No, my lord." Another silence fell. John crumpled the letter, unread, let it droD into the rushes at his feet. The monk made an instinctive grab for it, then jerked his hand back as if burned. Will cleared his throat, seemed on the verge of speech. John forestalled him, said without any intonation whatsoever, "Leave me. All of you." The men did not need to be told twice; even Will obeyed at once But Joanna's discipline took her only as far as the door. There she whirled, ran back, and knelt by John's chair. "Let me stay, Papa," she pleaded. "Please . . ." The face upturned to his was waxen, wet with tears. John put his arm around her, and she began to sob in earnest. He drew her closer, let her weep against his shoulder, and after a brief time her sobs subsided, gave way to sighs and hiccups. Joanna's first flow of tears had been for herself, for her own loss. But now she wiped her face with her sleeve, ready to share that loss, recognizing that her father's sense of bereavement might be even greater than hers. "Papa . . . I'm so sorry." Joanna remembered, too vividly, what it had been like to lose her mother, remembered not so much her grieving as her sheer terror. Did men and women grown ever experience blind, suffocating panic like that? She did not know. Her father's face was shuttered, unreadable. "Papa . . . you have not said a word, not one. Do you not want to talk? How do you feel?" She looked up at him anxiously, no longer a child, not yet a woman, tears still glistening in the slanting hazel eyes, Eleanor's eyes, and John was suddenly glad he'd allowed her to stay. "How do I feel?" He found that was not an easy question to answer, at last said, "Alone . . . very alone. And angry, so angry I can think of nothing else." Adult emotions were no longer as mysterious or inexplicable to Joanna as they'd once been, but this was utterly beyond her comprehension. "Angry ... at your mother? Because she died? But why? I do not understand, Papa." "Neither do I, Joanna." And in that moment John sounded no less bewildered than his twelve-year-old daughter. "Neither do I."
^ WINCHESTER, ENGLAND September 1204 |JUN kJuMMONED by her father, Joanna left London on Tuesday morning of Michaelmas week Traveling in the company of her Aunt Ela, Countess of Salisbury, they reached Winchester at dusk on Thursday There they found other ladies of the courtlike them, summoned to attend the King But John had not yet arrived from Clarendon, had still not come by noon the next day With so many people to be sheltered, beds were scarce, and Joanna's aunt was given a cramped chamber musty with the rancid odors nsmg up from the castle moat It was a far less desirable room than those taken by Maude de Braose and Isobel, Countess of Pembroke, but Ela voiced no objections Although she had brought her husband an earldom, his fief was neither large nor lucrative, Will held only fifty knights' fees, and no castles, although John did allow him to make use of Salisbury Castle In contrast, William de Braose held no less thanthree hundred fifty knights' fees and some sixteen English and Welsh castles Ela, a shy, self-effacing young woman, accepted the realities of power without a murmur of protest, would never have dreamed of contesting wills with so aggressive a personality as Maude de Braose It did occur to Joanna, who liked Maude not at all, but her youth and illegitimacy effectively rendered her mute Joanna was standing now on the stairs outside their bedchamber, frozen with rage The door was only slightly ajar, but the voices within came quite clearly to her ears, so audibly that she recognized the speakers without difficulty Maude de Braose, Maude's daughter Margaret de Lacy, wife to the Lord of Meath, and Isobel, wife to the powerful William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke She had yet to hear her aunt's voice, however, and while that did not surprise her, it did anger her Ela was
172 her father's sister by marriage; common courtesy, if not loyalty, shouu compel her to speak up for him. "I had a letter from my husband today, Mama. Word reached Ire land a fortnight ago that Poitiers fell to the French on August tenth, bm Walter refuses to believe it." "After the defeats of the past year? After losing all of Normandy jn less tha
n a twelvemonth? You could tell me tomorrow that Philip had taken London itself, and I'd not think to doubt you!" "Ah, Maude, that's not strictly fair. I grant you the King made some grave errors of judgment. My husband warned him it was folly to release the de Lusignans, no matter how many hostages they offered up as pledges for their loyalty. Nor did John help himself by relying upon so brutal a captain as Lupescaire; a man does not gain himself a name like 'the Wolf without cause, and I doubt not he affronted many who might otherwise have stayed loyal to John. But" "Yet men such as that do have their uses. In Wales we" Most people found themselves at a distinct disadvantage when competing with Maude de Braose for conversational control, but Isobel of Pembroke was a remarkably single-minded woman, little given to self-doubt. "If I may finish, Maude," she said, placidly overriding Maude's interruption with one of her own, "not all of his troubles were of the King's making. His lack of moneyyou know as well as I that Richard drained the royal treasury dry. And in all honesty, some of John's difficulties with his Norman barons can be traced, too, to his brother's reign. Richard laid a heavy hand upon the land, and there were many who chafed under it." "I daresay there's some truth in what you say, Isobel. But that changes not the fact that within two years of his triumph at Mirebeau, John did lose Normandy, Anjou, and Touraine, and now most of Poitou. Say what you will about Richard, but think you that he would have stayed in England whilst Castle Gaillard was under siege? Not if he had to swim the Channel with his sword in his teeth! Mayhap he, too, would have lost Normandy, but we may be sure that Richard would have lost his life, as well, would have died ere he'd yield up so much as a handful of Norman soil to Philip. You can scarcely say the same for John!" Joanna had not meant to confront them; girls of thirteen did not challenge their elders. But with Maude's taunt, she forgot all else, grabbed for the door latch. The women within turned startled faces toward her; even Maude looked somewhat disconcerted. Recovering quickly, however, she said curtly, "I trust you were not eavesdropping Joanna." "I need no lesson in manners, Madame. Not from you." Maude's mouth tightened. "If you were my daughter, I'd slap y011
Here Be Dragons - 1 Page 21